Breath and Skin
by 1note
Summary: Rorschach/OC. Our favorite antihero meets a volunteer nurse who gradually reawakens the humanity he had long forgotten.
1. First Encounters

**A/N:** Aside from including this here author's note & disclaimer I've also made some changes to the first chapter. [**Proofread. Always proofread!] **I was in kind of a hurry to get it posted and still make the weekend matinee of the Watchmen movie, which I hadn't seen yet (I give it a B). Jackie Earle Haley utterly rules as Rorschach! Therefore this story, though definitely AU, is going to have some influences from said flick as well as the original graphic novel. Hope ya like it.

Oh, one more thing. The story's title is taken from the lyrics of Duran Duran's song "Come Undone."

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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THE END IS NIGH

Chloe gazed up at the moving sign. "The end of what?" she asked, meeting the bearer's icy stare without any noticeable discomfort.

The shabby redhead searched the middle-aged black woman's features for any indications of mockery. Finding none, he reluctantly answered, "The world."

"Which one?"

A fleeting expression of annoyance before cold detachment returned. "What?"

"Which world? Yours? Mine?" She gestured to the milling crowds passing them on either side like a river. "Theirs? I mean, what is 'The World,' but the sum of our perceptions?"

It bothered him that this actually made sense. "Everyone's."

The corners of her mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. "Well then, I guess there's nothing left to worry about." Chloe sauntered off, throwing a coy glance over her shoulder.

Walter Kovacs watched the woman's retreating back in puzzlement. "Hurm."

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It had been a slow morning at the free clinic. Slow enough for Chloe to make a rare excursion to the little book store eight blocks away and buy a paperback, which now rested in the large outer pocket of her old tweed jacket. Getting back, however, she discovered a line stretching down the street from the clinic's front door. Harried welfare mothers herded screaming kids, homeless men coughed wetly, trembling junkies stared with empty eyes. Chloe hurried through the bustle and squeezed through the door. She quickly stowed her coat in the tiny coat closet, stuffed the pockets of her light blue scrubs with extra latex gloves, and took her place at the third station. The other two volunteer nurses cast her grateful looks.

"Thank God!" Rachel gushed. "Place is turnin' into a zoo."

"Next!" Chloe barked. A twenty-something girl with tangled blonde hair, thin to the point of emaciation, shuffled forward cradling her left arm. Chloe gently peeled back the sleeve to reveal angry red track marks and a puncture wound black with infection. Stifling a quiet sigh, she cleaned and bandaged the wound and administered antibiotics, admonishing the girl not to aggravate it (in other words, shoot up elsewhere). She then gave the girl a box of new syringes with a guilty pang, knowing she was an enabler. Knowing the girl would accept no other help.

So the day went, offering band-aids and antibiotics, vaccines and stitches to the poor and the desperate. In more severe cases, she advised they go to the emergency room or come back the next day, Wednesday--one of two days a week when an actual doctor volunteered some hours at the clinic. The flow of patients gradually slowed. Six o'clock rolled around. Rachel and Maria headed home, it being Chloe's day to work the late shift. Finally, _finally_, the last patient shuffled out at nine-thirty. Chloe hurried to lock the door and flipped the sign: FREE CLINIC IS CLOSED, PLEASE RETURN TOMORROW; with the clinic's hours listed below. She turned off the interior lights, collected her coat from the closet, and made her exhausted trek up the back stairs to the little apartment she kept on the building's second floor.

"Efficiency," is how the advertisement would label it, if she were to ever move. An L-shaped room with a bed, a chair, a TV, and a little kitchenette. A narrow hallway led to the closet-sized bathroom with its toilet and shower stall. Chloe stripped out of her soiled scrubs, tossed them absently into the laundry basket, and headed for the bathroom for her nightly shower. Afterwards, in a long T-shirt and wrapped in her faded blue terrycloth robe, she heated a can of soup on her little stove and slurped it down, brushed her teeth, and crawled into bed. The ever present background noise of the city--barking dogs, distant shouts, police sirens--soon lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

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_Stupid. Should have watched for second man. Not enough sleep. Slow, sluggish. Like blood seeping through my fingers; sluggish. Can't go to hospital. Too far from Dreiberg's home. There. Free clinic. Run by bleeding hearts. Giving band-aids and aspirin to junkies and whores. Helping such lowlifes, must know when to keep quiet. Heard talk; volunteer lives there. Bleeding heart. Bleeding man. Find fire escape. Too weak to climb quietly. Stumble. Glass pane rattles but doesn't break. Light flips on. Startled face in window. Woman, black, long curly hair going gray. Woman who talked to Kovacs. Window opens. Foolish. Could be murderer, rapist. Wave of dizziness hits. Legs weak. Slipping, falling. Dying…_

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She knew who he was. How could she not? His non-face was everywhere; in newspapers, wanted posters. Rorschach the vigilante, the killer. He was wounded; stabbed in the gut. The sight of all that blood triggered Chloe's nursing instincts, banishing all qualms. It didn't matter that this strange man had barged in through her bedroom window in the middle of the night. Didn't matter that she was alone, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, with a known violent criminal in her home. At that moment, he became her patient. She helped him through her window, surprised this larger-than-life vigilante was so slight of build. He groaned as she dragged him to her bed, unconcerned by the fact that his blood was ruining her sheets. He kept both hands clasped tightly over the wound. Good. Chloe hurried downstairs to the clinic, grabbed a suture kit, gloves, sterile gauze, and ran back up to her apartment. She pulled his gloved hands away, peeled back his coat and ruined shirt. Blood seeped from a long, deep cut running diagonally from above his navel to his right side. Chloe cleaned away the blood, relieved to see the wound was shallower than she'd feared. No organ damage, and the blood was starting to clot. She threaded the curved needle with thick black thread and set to stitching the wound. If her patient experienced any pain from her ministrations, he gave no sign, at least sound-wise. Couldn't tell a thing from that mask of his.

Rorschach stared at the woman's bent head as she worked. Her face was serene with focused concentration. Fine lines traced patterns across her broad forehead, at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Remnants of a thousand smiles. Full expressive lips, narrow chin, hazel eyes. She radiated calm assurance.

Rorschach's gaze slid away from the woman tending him to take in his surroundings. Small place. Slightly rundown, but clean. TV on the dresser, paperbacks crammed into cheap pressboard shelves against the far wall. Framed picture above the shelf; the woman, younger, twined in the arms of a tall man, darker than her, both smiling. Too far to make out detail. No other pictures or mementos in sight. The bed he lay on was narrow, twin sized. No one else, then. Not even a pet. Not even houseplants.

His eyelids felt heavy, vision blurred. Tired from blood-loss and shock. Despite himself, he felt unwelcome sleep creeping over him. He sighed.

Finished, Chloe tied off the last stitch and snipped the extra thread, then covered the wound with gauze and taped it in place with white surgical tape. She sat back on her heels and looked up at her patient. His head was turned a little towards the wall, breathing slow and regular. Strange black images flowed upon his mask. A strong odor emanated from him; sweat and too much cologne. Chloe had smelled worse, but was surprised a "superhero" didn't practice better hygiene.

"You awake?" she whispered. No answer. Chloe gathered up the scraps of thread, gauze, and her used gloves, and stood to dispose of them. She then went to the kitchenette, filled a large bowl with hot water, grabbed a rag, and returned to the bedside. With slow, gentle movements, she began to wash the blood from the man's torso. He sighed as the warm, wet cloth brushed against his skin; his only reaction. Chloe found the act of bathing him soothing and proceeded to wash the rest of his exposed skin, whether it was bloodied or not. Over his lean, well muscled chest, his shoulders. She tugged aside the dirty white scarf to better wash his neck. Her knuckles brushed against the bottom edge of his mask. For a fleeting moment, she was tempted to peel the morphing fabric aside and see what lay beneath, but decided against it. His identity was none of her business.

Finished, she dumped the tainted water into the sink, rinsed the bowl, grabbed a towel from a drawer, and dried him off. His skin was freckled and pale. So pale she didn't notice the scars until she really looked. His body was a roadmap of past battles. Now dry, Chloe pulled the covers up to her patient's chin, noting that her ministrations had reduced his body odor somewhat. She went to her dresser to pull out a spare blanket, then curled up in her easy chair, facing the bed and its occupant. She drifted off in moments.

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Sunlight streamed through the little window, stabbing through closed eyelids like fiery needles. Rorschach grimaced, opened his eyes to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. The threw back the quilted blanket to find his shirt open and his stomach taped in gauze. Oh yes, he remembered now.

A sizzle reached his ears and a scent assaulted his nostrils. His stomach twisted in hunger. He sat up, his shod feet clomped against the floorboards. A brown face peered around a corner at him. The woman gave a hesitant "Hi."

Rorschach didn't respond.

Chloe turned back to her stove. She lifted the frying pan, held it over a plate, used the spatula to transfer the pan's contents. She set the pan and spatula aside, took up the plate and a fork, and approached the silent man seated on her bed.

"Here," she said quietly, "You've lost a lot of blood. You need protein."

Rorschach took the plate. Two eggs stared up at him, yolks like the Comedian's pin. Chloe returned to the kitchenette while her "guest" ate the last of her eggs. The toaster soon stood at attention. She smeared margarine and honey over her breakfast. Minutes passed with only the crunch of toast and the slurp of runny yolks to break the uneasy silence.

Finished, Rorschach pulled his face back down to cover his mouth and stood. He approached the woman, held the empty plate out to her. She took it without a word and placed it in the sink.

Chloe picked up a plastic-wrapped bundle from the counter and handed it to him. "You'll need to change the gauze twice a day, and clean the stitches with rubbing alcohol," she explained, "Don't get them wet. When the gauze runs out, it'll be time to get the stitches taken out. There's also a bottle of antibiotics. Take them once a day until they're gone. Even if you feel healthy, take them. Infections hit hard and fast with smaller wounds than yours."

Rorschach nodded, tucked the bundle into his overcoat pocket. He fastened the remaining buttons on his bloodied shirt, closed his overcoat to conceal the mess. Without a word of thanks, the vigilante left as he had come; through the window and onto the fire escape. He didn't bother closing the window behind him.

"You're welcome," Chloe muttered. She wasn't sure whether to be irritated or amused by this uncommunicative man who had barged into her home. _A sensible person would call the police_, her inner nanny chided. _He is, after all, a wanted criminal._ But he hadn't harmed her. Granted, he was wounded and no doubt woozy from the loss of blood, but he could have done something this morning and yet _hadn't_. Even hardened criminals could show gratitude, even if it meant simply _not_ raping and murdering a woman who foolishly lived alone in a high-crime neighborhood.

Chloe smirked at these thoughts and shook her head. "One weird night."

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Rorschach was used to fear; expected it. Those he saved from certain death often ran screaming at the sight of him as readily as they had the scum he fought on their behalf. He understood such reactions. He was frightening in appearance, monstrous by reputation. He accepted their fear as the price to be paid in cleansing the city of evil.

But the woman hadn't been frightened. In that crime-riddled area, alone in a poorly maintained apartment easily broken into, she should have panicked at the sight of a strange man at her window. Should have run screaming for help. But she hadn't. Her behavior was an anomaly. Rorschach disliked anomalies. They often betokened sinister deeds. He just couldn't figure what they might be. A pusher wouldn't live in a shabby second-floor efficiency. Perhaps she took advantage of her access to pharmaceuticals to feed her own addiction? Then why help him? He was a clear threat to the likes of her, assuming she _was_ a junkie. _Hurm. Will investigate, he decided._


	2. Needles and Lollipops

**A/N:** As you've no doubt realized from reading the first chappie, I've digressed from the usual damsel in distress method used in so many Rorschach/OC stories. I thought it'd be refreshing to have someone save _him_, for once. I'm not sure how long this story's going to be, but I _do _know how it will end, which is something of an anomaly for me. That and the fact that I actually _like _what I'm writing so far. Anyway, on to Chapter 2!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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Chloe leaned against the wall outside the clinic, eyes closed against the brightness of the day. Despite the heavy pollution blanketing the city, the ever-resolute sun managed to batter a few of its more persistent rays through the smoggy barrier. It warmed the late August air enough that she didn't feel the need to put on her coat.

Things were more hectic than usual at the clinic. Flu season would soon be upon them and Veidt Pharmaceuticals had donated 150 doses of vaccine. People were frantic to avoid the illness.

A shadow passed over her face for a brief moment. Chloe opened her eyes to find the cause. She grinned. "Hey!"

The redheaded street prophet paused, turned. His face remained expressionless as a mask.

Chloe pushed off from the wall and approached him, still smiling. "You following me?" she teased.

"No," came the monotone response.

"Here to get vaccinated? You better hurry. The way things are going we'll run out in a couple of hours."

His cold blue eyes seemed to bore through her skull and out the other side. Most found the sensation unsettling. She seemed oblivious.

"Don't need it."

"You sure? It's gonna be a nasty strain this year," she warned, "I already got my shot."

He remained silent. Chloe shrugged. "Okay. If you change your mind, the line's over there," she indicated the impatient row of people stretching down the block, then let her arm drop back to her side. "I'm Chloe, by the way. I gotta get back. See you around," she grinned, "If the world doesn't end, that is." And with that she turned and jogged off, disappearing through the clinic's front door.

Kovacs tightened his grip on the sign. Yet again the woman had approached him unasked and tried to strike up a conversation. No amount of silent glares seemed to put her off. Just smiled and chattered on as if they were old acquaintances.

His was a mind of rigid perception; thoughts and concepts and human beings compartmentalized with fanatical precision. The fact that he could not quite figure this woman's place in his mental filing system annoyed him to no end. He had observed her from a distance, both showing his mask and as Rorschach, for the last three days and had so far uncovered nothing more sinister than an inordinate fondness for pulp science fiction novels. Her life centered around the free clinic. She made no time for socializing; didn't visit the local night spots or attend neighborhood gatherings. Just worked and read and slept. Surveillance could tell him nothing more. If Kovacs was to uncover any misdeeds, he would need to get closer to her.

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"I'm not gonna lie to you. Needles hurt," Chloe said, looking the somber nine-year-old in the eye, "But your mama wouldn't have brought you here if she didn't think this was best for you. Flu is no fun, believe me."

The boy's expression said that yes, he agreed influenza was unpleasant, in theory; but needles were a _known_ discomfort and he wasn't enthusiastic about getting one stuck in his arm.

"Now," Chloe continued, "once we're done, you can look forward to getting either a sucker," she held up a wicker basket, "which will rot your teeth, _or _a cheap plastic toy," she lifted a cardboard box, "which you'll almost certainly grow bored with in about ten minutes.

"But," she held up a finger for emphasis, "if you keep perfectly still so I can get this over with that much quicker, I will let you take one of each. Deal?"

The kid nodded enthusiastically, eager for the promise of quick and easy gratification.

"Alrighty then." Chloe swabbed the boy's arm with alcohol and readied the needle. "Feel free to make some noise." Jab.

"AAUUUGGGGHHH!"

"Whoo! Nothing wrong with those lungs," Chloe laughed. She carefully applied a cartoon-embossed band-aid to the boy's arm. He accompanied his embarrassed mother out the door moments later with a yellow lollipop in his mouth and a green rubber lizard in his hand.

Chloe pulled off the latex gloves with a snap and tossed them into the waste receptacle. She looked towards the waiting line and smiled. "Maria, I'll take that one." She waved the next man to her.

Kovacs approached the nurse's station, sign in hand. He leaned it against the wall and sat in the provided chair. His eyes were now level with hers.

"Changed your mind, I see," Chloe grinned, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

Kovacs rolled up his sleeve and proffered the exposed arm. Chloe wet a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol and swabbed a patch of skin. She frowned thoughtfully. "You know, there's something familiar about you."

"Talked to me a few minutes ago."

She giggled. "That's not what I meant. Something else. Something…" she waved a hand as if to pluck a solution from the air. "Hell, I dunno. It'll come to me." She unwrapped a prepared syringe, slid the needle into his skin with practiced ease.

Kovacs experienced mild relief when she dropped the subject. For a brief moment he'd worried he might have slipped somehow.

He focused on the woman's subtle body cues. Pupils reacted normally to the light, breathing normal, no signs of sweatiness or fidgeting. If she was abusing meds, her body gave no sign. He had observed her interaction with the child and had to admit he had been somewhat impressed with her handling of him. It was all the other two nurses could do to inject the thrashing, shrieking kids (and quite a few adults) without breaking the needles.

Finished, Chloe capped the spent needle and tossed into the yellow trashcan with the biohazard symbol on the side, then placed a band-aid over the puncture wound. She plucked a purple sucker from the basket and held it out to him. "Here. You look like you could use some sugar," she winked.

Again, the blank stare.

"If you don't want it you could try saying, 'No thanks, Chloe. I'm sweet enough.'"

For just a fraction of a second, she could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch as if a smile had tried to sneak past his defenses. Then it was back to his usual inscrutable facade.

Kovacs took the offered candy, put it in his pocket. He stood, pulling his sleeve down over his bared arm. He picked up his sign.

"Thank you," he said, so quiet she almost didn't hear.

"You're welcome," Chloe smiled. He left.

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The street prophet wended his way through the ever-flowing crowds of pedestrians and wondered what was wrong with him.

He walked by the clinic nearly every day now. He would see Chloe leaning against the wall, taking a breather from the barely contained chaos. Sometimes she looked so exhausted she could barely stand, yet she always managed a welcoming smile for him which he then acknowledged with a small nod. The times he did not see her left a faint nagging disappointment that gnawed at the back of his mind for the rest of the day.

At night, in his face, Rorschach perched on the roof of the building across the alley from the free clinic. It offered a perfect view of Chloe's apartment window. Sometimes the light would be on and he'd catch a glimpse of her silhouette through the drawn curtains. He told himself it was for her protection. Her little apartment was vulnerable to attacks from the roving perverts and brutes that infested this city, and she lived alone, helpless. Never mind the quickening of his pulse when he saw her figure in the window, the lingering thoughts of her smile, her laugh. She was nothing to him but a potential victim in need of rescuing; he could no longer bring himself to view her with suspicion.

He did as instructed; cleaned and re-bandaged his stitches twice a day, and tried to ignore the little thrill he felt as he saw the pile of gauze diminish. Soon the stitches would have to come out. Rorschach would be paying the nurse another visit.


	3. Dark Sacred Night

**A/N:** You know, I tried to kid myself into thinking I didn't really care what anyone else thought of my writing. I tried to ignore the nervous tremors as I posted my first chapter (which I've since revised, by the way) and told myself I didn't _need_ to know what other people's opinions were. Then I read my first reviews. I walked away from the computer with a big silly grin on my face and thinking "They like it! They _like _it!" I'll be riding this high for quite a while. Thank you all for that little boost to my ego. I shall not, however, ask for any further reviews (after all, I still have my pride). If you all choose to post something, then so be it. ;-) I shall do my best to live up to your praises.

Now, on with the next chapter!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor do I own the musical talents of the late great Louis Armstrong.**

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Chloe slipped the cassette into her boom box and hit play. Louis Armstrong's gravelly voice drifted from the speakers. It was August 30th. Byron's birthday. He would have been forty-two years old. Chloe took down the framed photograph, cradled it in her hands. Byron and his bride smiled out from Central Park. The picture had been taken on their fifth anniversary. They had eaten a picnic lunch by the duck pond, or tried to until the ducks rallied an assault to take the bread pudding. Chloe had rolled on the blanket laughing uproariously while her husband chased off the quacking, waddling bandits, cursing them all the way back to the water. The memory still made her laugh. Afterwards, they had taken a leisurely walk, enjoying the perfect sunny day. Chloe carried the rolled-up blanket while Byron toted the picnic basket in one hand and the boom box in the other, and they had sung along as Louie exalted in skies of blue and clouds of white. They'd agreed wholeheartedly, it was indeed a wonderful world.

Chloe was so grateful she still had this picture.

_Tap, tap, tap,_ came the sound from her window. Puzzled, Chloe returned the photo to the wall and went to pull the curtains aside. An amorphous black and white visage confronted her. She opened the window and stepped back, giving her visitor room to come in from the chilly night. Rorschach closed the window behind him; an uncommon courtesy. They regarded each other in silence.

"Yes?" Chloe prompted.

He pushed his overcoat aside, lifted his shirt and pointed. "Stitches."

"Oh! Right, um…" she pointed to the bed, "Go ahead and lie down. I need to get a couple of things." She trotted downstairs, got a small pair of scissors, tweezers, and some extra gauze in case of bleeding. When she returned Rorschach had stretched out full length on her bed with his shirt unbuttoned. Chloe washed her hands, then knelt on the floor beside the bed. She gently removed the bandage and set it on the floor in front of her. The wound was healing nicely; no redness or inflammation. Chloe snipped the first stitch, used the tweezers to tug the loose bit of thread free. A tiny dot of blood welled up in the hole it left behind.

"That hurt?" she asked.

"No." His voice was a low rasp, the sound of darkened alleys and empty houses left to crumble. It sent a tiny shiver through her and reminded her of the supposedly haunted house her childhood neighborhood had sported. Unlike her friends, who wouldn't go within fifty yards of the thing, little Chloe had regularly snuck in to explore its empty rooms festooned with dusty cobwebs. It wasn't that she didn't believe there was a ghost. Quite the opposite. It was the anticipation of meeting such a wondrous, fearsome thing that moved her to go back inside week after week.

Chloe worked her way down the row, depositing the loose ends onto the used bandage for disposal. The boom box continued playing her husband's favorite music. She smiled as she heard a particular song's opening chords and began to sing along.

"_It was just one of those things. Just one of those craziest flings_…"

Rorschach stared. He had never seen her expression so wistfully happy. Her voice rose in lighthearted accompaniment to Louie's joyous growl while her steady hands continued their work.

"_Just one of those fabulous flights. A trip to the moon on gossamer wings. Just one of those things_."

"There." Chloe dabbed the traces of blood with a square of gauze and sat back on her heels to view her handiwork. "Looking good. There'll hardly be a scar." On impulse, her hand reached out. She ran her fingertips across his freckled skin, just under the healing wound.

Rorschach's body recoiled as if burned. Chloe exclaimed in surprise as he leapt from the bed. He took several long strides away from her and stood facing the wall, back ramrod straight and gloved hands clenched.

"S-sorry," Chloe stammered, gathering her implements and soiled gauze with hands no longer quite so steady. She had let herself forget for a moment just how dangerous this person was. His swift, intense reaction to her touch brought to mind a feral street dog who seemed harmless until you stretched out a hand, then out came the teeth.

Chloe stood, walked slowly to the kitchenette to dispose of the used bandage in the trashcan. From the corner of her eye she saw the vigilante button his shirt with greater care than necessary. The inkblots on his mask whorled.

What must it be like, she wondered, to view the world as a potential threat? To never know another human touch except in acts of violence, leaving bruises and broken bones? Did he long for something as casual as a handshake, as friendly as a pat on the shoulder, as innocent as a peck on the cheek? Or was brutality all he'd ever known? Sadness welled in her; she suspected it was.

Rorschach finished buttoning his shirt and pulled his coat closed. He was irritated with himself over his lack of self control. The woman had a disturbing effect on him. She had a way of worming past his defenses with her easy banter and cheery disposition, her seeming lack of sinister motives. He did not know how to contend with kindness.

He turned from the wall intending to make his exit when he saw her standing there, looking at him. Her face held such a depth of sorrow he feared it might swallow him whole. And it was directed at him. _For _him.

It was too much. It could have been anything else--fear, or hatred, or even pity--but _this_? He had no protection from this. No way to shield himself from the brunt of such an emotion. No way to prevent his own emotions' response. All he could do was flee. He hurried to the window, flung it open, dove through. The fire escape rattled under his weight as he struggled down the rusted steps. Little more than halfway down he jumped, landed hard on the pavement. He all but ran down the alley, letting the night envelop him in its familiar dark embrace, but it couldn't blot out the memory of Chloe's sad eyes boring into him. Alone in an abandoned tenement he leaned against a wall and took off his fedora, then his face. The autumn air against his skin brought the awareness of moisture on his cheeks. He wiped it away with his sleeve; hard, angry swipes that left his skin red. A sound threatened to emerge from his tightening throat, but he stamped it down through sheer willpower. He would not lose control. He was hardness and cold anger, vengeance made flesh. He would show no weakness, even to the empty night. He was Rorschach and he would not falter. Not even in the face of another's compassion.

_God damn her._

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Chloe shut the window and drew the curtains. She should have turned away before he saw. Her face was not made to hide her feelings and though she could tell nothing from his mask, she knew Rorschach had received a hard blow to his carefully maintained detachment. She feared she may have healed one wound only to have ripped open another, deeper one. An old wound that never truly mended. Chloe knew about such things; cuts on the soul which no amount of artifice could cleanse, no skilled surgeon close. Like phantom pains from a lost limb, they could only be endured.

Louis Armstrong sang on; his best known and perhaps most poignant song. Chloe closed her eyes and swayed to the music, remembering long ago happy days with Byron. She pressed her hands to her chest and felt the strong beat of her heart. Still alive.

_I see skies of blue_

_And clouds of white_

_The bright blessed day_

_The dark sacred night_

_And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…_

Chloe spun, head tilted back, smiling as the tears rolled down her face.

_And I think to myself, what a wonderful world._

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**A/N: Yeah, it's short, but I was eager to get this new chapter posted. I promise to make the next one a bit longer.**

**This chapter featured my two favorite Louis Armstrong songs. I'm sure everybody knows at least bits'n'pieces of his wonderful world song (which I can never listen to without getting misty), but I'd only ever heard "Just One of Those Things" in a commercial years ago before I found it again on a jazz compilation CD. You readers out there should check it out. I can guarantee it'll have you humming along.**


	4. Too Much

**A/N:** Just a word of warning. This chapter starts out light, but I've written some pretty damn grim stuff here. In fact, parts of it are downright gruesome.

I borrowed a few phrases from the graphic novel to use in Rorschach's conversation with the newsvendor. I figure he's a creature of habit and would pretty much give the same responses every time he bought his paper.

The excerpt from the book Chloe reads later on is taken from _Kindred_ by Octavia E. Butler, a fantastic read from a marvelous author. Check it out. It's got the most attention-grabbing opening sentence I've ever read.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor do I own the literary works of Octavia E. Butler.**

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Chloe warmed the stethoscope against her palm before pressing it to the baby's chest. There was some congestion, but not enough to make her think this might be pneumonia. Just a severe cold.

The baby coughed. His chubby hands grasped the collar of Chloe's scrubs top. "Hey now," Chloe smiled, disentangling the cooing baby's fingers, "I'm not that kind of girl." She straightened, draped the stetho around her neck, and indicated the baby's anxious mother wait a moment. She went to the medical supply cabinet and grabbed a bottle of children's cold medicine. Now came the difficult part; young Mrs. Silva's grasp of English was somewhat shaky, and most of Chloe's limited vocabulary of Spanish wasn't fit for a young mother's ears, so she spent the next few minutes explaining when and how much medicine to give the baby using mostly drawings on scrap paper and pantomime. Thankfully, Mrs. Silva was a bright lady and caught on quickly.

"_Muchas gracias, se__ñora_," the woman clasped the nurse's hand, then gathered her child in her arms and exited the clinic.

"_De nada_," Chloe sighed, then called the next patient. A youngish man with purple hair limped forward.

"Hey, Maria," Rachel, taking an older woman's blood pressure, called out from her station, "How come you didn't help with that?"

"Don't speak Spanish," Maria replied absently while taping a man's sprained wrist.

"Really? You told me your last name was Ortiz."

_Oh dear_, Chloe thought.

Maria slowly shifted her gaze to regard the clinic's newest member. "And?" she asked, voice deceptively calm.

"Well, you're Mexican, aren't y--"

"I'm from Oregon, damn it!"

Rachel's eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing behind her bangs. "Okaaay. I was just asking."

But Maria was not to be placated. "Why does everybody think I speak Spanish just 'cause my grandparent are Latino? I mean, they don't expect you to speak Polish, or Chloe to know Swahili." Her hands flailed about in emphasis.

Chloe nodded thoughtfully. "She makes a valid point." She turned to the younger nurse, "Why _don't _you speak Polish, Rache?" The other nurse giggled.

"Oh sure!" Maria snorted, "Crack wise. You guys just don't know how irritating it is dealing with those stupid assumptions." She turned to her patient. "Am I right, sir?"

The man blinked. _"Qu__é?"_

Dr. Parson entered the clinic to find Maria shaking her head ruefully, hand covering her face, while the rest of the nursing staff laughed uncontrollably. "Sounds like I missed a doozy."

"Sorry, Matt. You had to be there." Chloe managed to regain her composure. She pointed to the closed door with EXAM ROOM stenciled on it. "Mr. Frakes is already waiting."

"Thanks." The young physician nodded and went in.

Chloe finished with her patient and took her break outside. She leaned against her usual spot at the clinic's outer wall and watched the endless stream of pedestrians walking by. She kept her eyes peeled for a hand painted wooden sign and its redheaded bearer, but no such luck. The street prophet hadn't made an appearance in several days. Maybe he was tired of their one-sided conversations, Chloe thought. She sighed.

"Hi, Chloe!"

"Hey," Chloe smiled at the approaching figure. Mimi was seventeen, but her delicate Asian features made her look even younger. Her belly protruded through her plain brown sweater. When she had made her first arrival at the clinic, she had been nearly unrecognizable from the girl she was now. Her spiky hair had been dyed a vibrant red, eyes and lips garishly made up, and her clothes clung tight to her too-thin figure. Another lost daughter of the streets. When she found out she was pregnant, Mimi had utterly transformed. She quit her drug habit and the prostitution that had financed it, and started taking classes to earn her GED. She was determined to be a good mother.

"Here for your exam already?"

Mimi nodded. "Um, is Dr. Parson the one working today?"

"Yep." Chloe smiled at the girl's ill-concealed pleasure. Matthew Parson was a good looking guy. Sadly, his romantic interests didn't lie with those of the feminine persuasion. Chloe didn't have the heart to tell her so. Mimi thanked her and hurried into the clinic.

Chloe returned to watching the crowd. It was a dismal afternoon. The sky was a single massive cloud, heavy and gray. Its ominous growl was that of a sleeping dragon. Chloe hated storms. If it broke tonight she knew she'd get no sleep; she would keep the lights on and play the radio to blot out the noise and flashes. Watch late night TV or catch up on her reading, and pray there wasn't a blackout.

She found herself wondering what Rorschach did on such nights. Didn't criminals take shelter like everybody else? The masked vigilante didn't strike her as the type to take a night off. He would probably go stir crazy, climb the walls like a caged rat. Chloe thought about him quite a lot. On their second encounter, a sense of familiarity had swept over her as if she should know this person better. But she couldn't for the life of her figure out why this should be. It was probably so obvious she couldn't see it; like a mural made up of thousands of paint dots, you had to step back for the patterns to resolve into an actual picture. Chloe knew she should take a mental step back and let the puzzle solve itself, but her mind perversely continued to pick at the details. Maybe it was guilt over what happened almost four nights ago. Rorschach couldn't get out of her apartment fast enough after seeing the way she'd looked at him. When she wasn't obsessing over her sense of knowing him from somewhere, her mind kept dredging up the unhappy ending to their last encounter. It was very bothersome.

_Let it go, Chloe. _She sighed.

The looming cloud cover rumbled in its sleep. The dragon was restless.

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High above the city, a water molecule drifted. As it moved, it collected a following, drawn by mutual attraction. They were soon so many the thin air could no longer hold them. Gravity asserted itself. The newly formed raindrop plummeted from the cloud of its birth. Random cosmic quirks labeled by many over the millennia as Chance, Luck, or Fate prevented the water drop from meeting an early demise. It plunged through a flock of birds, narrowly missing the trailing edge of a wing, and tumbled past the massive airships hurrying to dock before the weather struck. It miraculously passed unharmed through a tangle of yellowing leaves on an overhanging branch of one of the unnaturally straight trees planted throughout the city's streets, and ended its short but eventful life with a splash into an upturned eye.

"Hrrmph!" Kovacs blinked the moisture away with an annoyed grunt.

"Here y'are, _New Frontiersman_," the stout old newsvendor passed him the day's issue. Kovacs dug in his pocket, pulled out a quantity of loose change. He counted each individual coin with care as he placed them one by one into the vendor's waiting hand. Anybody else, the old newsie might have rushed him along with the classic, "C'mon, pal. I ain't got all day," but this guy made him nervous. Those cold unblinking eyes made him think of venomous snakes poised to sink their fangs into the next unfortunate schmuck who didn't watch where he put his foot down. Still, he was a professional, so he gamely attempted the ancient salesman's art of small talk.

"So, how's the enna the world comin' along?" God help him, it was all he could ever think to ask. That damn sign.

"It'll happen today," the shabby man replied as always, "Today for certain."

_Clink_, the last penny landed. Kovacs lifted his piercing gaze to meet the nervously sweating man's. "You'll keep my paper for me tomorrow?"

"Abs'lutely." He dreaded what might happen if he didn't.

Satisfied, the street prophet stuffed the folded paper into his coat pocket and left to continue spreading the news of impeding doom.

"Weirdo," the newsvendor muttered.

Kovacs paraded slowly down the busy sidewalk. The flow of people parted around him like a stream around an immovable boulder, reacting without seeing. His sign and tattered clothes rendered him invisible to their selective eyes. Raindrops pattered around him, working themselves up for the big downpour. Would have to repaint the sign. He came to the intersection which led to the free clinic. As he had for the last four days, he paused, then turned the other way. No signs of criminal activity there, he told himself. No reason for further interaction. Plenty more filth infesting the city that needed his attention.

She would be standing outside at this time, he knew, leaning against the wall. Watching the passing faces…maybe looking for his? _Doesn't matter_, Rorschach hissed. Must continue the work. Always the work.

Night settled in. The sleeping dragon woke. Rain buffeted by turbulent winds stung like a thousand needles. Lightning shrieked through the goliath cloud. Alley cats squeezed under ledges with stray dogs, the violent weather bringing a temporary truce. Nothing moved but the twisting trees and a single figure, searching. For evil never sleeps. It only goes into hiding. Water sluiced from the brim of his fedora. The pavement in this neighborhood was so uneven that in places the puddles were ankle deep. Rorschach sloshed through them, ignoring the cold water which seeped into his shoes. He turned a corner and paused. For just a fraction of a second his ears picked up a sound that was not created by the weather raging around him. He willed his straining ears to filter out the roaring wind and lashing rain, the explosive cracks of thunder. There. He hurried towards the faint sound like a hound to a trace of blood. A dark alley loomed ahead. Rorschach turned into it. The dark was absolute. The vigilante had broken his flashlight the night before; used it to shatter a rapist's jaw. He silently cursed himself for not buying another. As if sensing his dilemma, the lightning came to his aid. It illuminated the alley in a series of strobing flashes.

FLASH

A giant loomed over a small figure curled on the filthy ground.

FLASH

The giant raised a booted foot.

FLASH

The boot came crashing down on the figure's protruding belly. A thin wail echoed down the length of the alley and assaulted the watching vigilante's senses, bringing his blood to a boil. Rorschach raced down the narrow passage in stuttering leaps.

FLASH…FLASH…FLASH

_ROAR!_

The giant fell under the wiry man's colliding body. They rolled on the muddy, shit strewn pavement, their curses and blows muted by the all encompassing tempest. Sausage-thick fingers caught Rorschach's neck in an unbreakable vice-like grip. The lightning revealed an ogre of a man, bearded lips peeled back from crooked teeth in a feral snarl as he thrashed the smaller man. Rorschach's own gloved hands grasped the blocky skull, his thumbs found the twin soft orbs of his eyes. They offered no resistance to the digits' relentless push. In and in, through slimy pulp to the rancid gray flesh behind them. The howling wind could not subdue the shriek of the giant as Rorschach squeezed and dug through layers of brain matter. The hands around his throat tightened in desperation, threatening to crush the vigilante's trachea. Then the massive body spasmed and went still. Rorschach extracted his thumbs from the ragged bloody holes, shoved the limp corpse off of him with a grunt of effort. He climbed to his feet and staggered to the smaller figure.

A girl, her face a battered pulp, one eye bloated shut, missing teeth. Blood oozed from her nose, her mouth, flowed from between her legs. So much blood. She clutched her bulging stomach.

Rorschach knelt, hefted her slight figure into his arms. Blood and water ran down his long coat and dribbled onto his shoes. The girl whimpered plaintively. He moved as fast as he could, hampered by the girl's dead weight (the Walter part of him cringed at the unfortunate choice of words). Hospital too far. Even if he found a working payphone, she would probably bleed to death before the paramedics arrived. No other choice. He headed for the clinic.

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Chloe sat cross-legged on her bed, reading.

…_**I think Kevin was as lonely and out of place as I was when I met him, though he was handling it better…**_

It was the only thing that could distract her from the cacophony outside. The words flowed from the page straight into her mind, summoning images as vivid as memory. The pages seemed to turn of their own accord as Chloe's eyes roamed.

…_**He was like me--a kindred spirit crazy enough to keep on trying. And now, finally…**_

"CHLOE!"

She put the book down and hurried to the window. The flashing clouds revealed a familiar coated figure bowed under the weight of a still body. Chloe rushed to the door, ran down the stairs. She unlocked and flung open the clinic's door. Rorschach burst in, carrying a bloodied, whimpering girl. Chloe pointed to the nearest nursing station. "Lay her down on the table." She grabbed the phone while he did so.

"_9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?"_

"I have a battered woman at the free clinic on Walston," Chloe rushed to the station, the phone's long cord trailing behind her. She froze for only an instant when recognition occurred. No time for emotion, only action. "Patient is a seventeen year old Asian female, six months pregnant," she said into the receiver she held on her shoulder with her chin while her hands worked, "Severely beaten. There's extensive bleeding from the vaginal region. Bandages!" She pointed to the appropriate cabinet. Rorschach rushed to comply.

"_There is an ambulance on its way. It should reach you in fifteen minutes."_

"_Fifteen? _The hospital isn't _that _far."

"_The severity of the storm is causing low visibility," _the operator explained, _"Any faster and they risk a collision."_

Shit.

"Chloeee." It came out as a moan. Mimi's right eye was a swollen mess, her left eye open and glazed with pain. Her mouth opened, revealing split lips and jagged broken teeth.

"It'll be okay, baby." Chloe worked frantically to staunch the bleeding. The phone's receiver slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a loud clatter, skidding several inches as the taut phone cord retracted. The emergency operator's voice droned unintelligibly from the earpiece. Chloe shouted instructions, not daring to leave the girl's side. Rorschach scurried to gather the items she needed, in one case breaking a cabinet lock to gain access. The minutes ticked by as the two fought to save the woman and her unborn child.

Mimi sobbed as stabbing pains shot through her body. Her abdominal muscles cramped to rock hardness. Chloe filled a syringe and searched the girl's arm for a vein.

_**ROAAAR!**_

The dragon raged above. Chloe's hands jerked in alarm, the syringe fell from her fingers.

"_Chloe!_" Mimi screamed. The lights flickered overhead. The young mother's body spasmed and her two saviors watched helplessly as her womb's precious contents slid out and tumbled wetly to the floor.

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The blood was everywhere, on the floor, on Chloe and Rorschach's clothes. Too much. Mimi lay on the exam table, her flesh bone white, panting as her body struggled for oxygen. It had only been six minutes since the vigilante had brought her. The paramedics weren't going to get there in time. They couldn't save her.

Chloe took the girl's cold hand in her own, placed her other hand on a brow icy with sweat. Mimi's remaining eye stared glassily up at her. Chloe couldn't tell if she saw her or had drifted into a haze.

Movement from the corner of her eye made the nurse turn. Rorschach knelt, a towel in his hands he had found in the linen closet. He carefully scooped up the tiny innocent's remains, swaddled it in the thin terrycloth, and stood to place the sad bundle beside its mother. He lay it in the crook of Mimi's arm and lifted her hand to rest it on top of the still infant. His movements were slow, almost reverential.

A low sound emerged from the young girl's mangled lips. Chloe looked her in the eye, squeezed her hand. She brushed the sweaty, matted bangs from Mimi's forehead. "Shhh."

Rorschach watched as Chloe comforted the dying girl. Even as her eyes welled with tears her face remained calm, tender. A gasping breath. A shudder. Stillness. Chloe closed her eyes. Rorschach wished to god she would break down and cry, scream, beat him with her bloodied fists. But she only passed her hand over the younger woman's face, shutting her sightless eye. The nurse's eyes opened again and she stared at the vigilante. This was worse than the sadness that had driven him away four nights ago. Her hazel eyes were filled with utter despair.

Through the faltering tempest came the distant wail of a siren. The ambulance had arrived, too late. Rorschach felt ashamed by the relief that flooded him; he had a reason to escape this nightmare. Chloe said nothing as he departed, only stood by the two victims waiting for the paramedics to take them to a colder, darker place.

The police arrived shortly after. This was a crime, after all. Chloe told them all she knew, save the identity of the man who had brought the doomed girl, giving instead a vague description--tall, brown hair, white. They kept their questions short, out of deference to her obvious exhaustion as well as the fact that law enforcement exerted little effort in such cases that occurred in this area of the city. Secretly they all thought amongst themselves: better these animals kill off each other than come after one of us.

Mimi and her baby were placed in the same body bag and loaded onto the ambulance. The paramedics drove off, no longer troubling themselves with the flashing lights and the siren. There was no hurry now.

Chloe sat on the floor, back against the wall, her knees drawn up and her arms curled around them, her face buried in the nest of her forearms. The blood remained; it was not the job of the police or the paramedics to see to such a mess. Need to clean it up, Chloe thought. Couldn't have patients walking into such as this.

Footsteps intruded on her thoughts. Chloe lifted her head to gaze upon a pair of legs clad in purple pinstripes. "Thought you'd left."

Rorschach held out a box of tissues; one of the clinic's. The place used more Kleenexes than it did band-aids. Chloe took the box, yanked out a tissue, and blew her nose. "Thanks." She looked up at the familiar unreadable mask. "How did it happen?"

"Man attacked her," he rasped, "Big, prison tattoos on his neck and arms."

"Lobo. He used to be Mimi's pimp," she sniffed, "Wasn't happy when she quit. She was his most popular girl."

"Won't be selling any more girls."

"That's comforting," she murmured tonelessly. A sad grimace began to contort her face. "She wanted that baby so badly."

The words brought bile to his throat. Rorschach growled, "Better dead than whoreson."

"_Shut up!_" Chloe flung the tissue box. It bounced off the stunned masked hero's chest. "You don't know her! She quit that life! She was off the junk and eating better and taking classes! She was learning to _knit_, for Christ's sake!" Her voice broke. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle the sobs.

Rorschach stared down at her, his normally rigid shoulders sagging ever-so-slightly. He slowly sank to one knee in front of her so that his face was level with hers. She met his fathomless gaze.

"I wasn't fast enough," the words were so quiet, so full of regret, "Heard a sound in the thunder. Wasn't sure. Hesitated. Took too long to find her and…I…"

Chloe, in sympathy, reached out, but instead of placing her hand on his knee she lightly grasped the crease in his pant leg just below the knee joint. Rorschach felt the gentle tug.

"You know what our problem is?" she asked, "We both care too damn much. You try to beat the bad out of people. I try to patch up the good. And nothing ever changes. But we just can't seem to let ourselves stop." She chuckled ruefully. "Quite a pair, aren't we?"

Rorschach didn't answer, just looked at her as some indefinable emotion rose in him. Outside, the rumble of the storm grew distant. He stood and, after a moment's hesitation, held out a gloved hand. It was a hand that had meted retribution on the flesh and bones of countless wrongdoers, slender fingers like bands of steel. Chloe took it without a qualm and let the vigilante pull her to her feet. She stared at his shifting mask with an expression he could not put a label to.

"What?" he asked.

"For a second there," she pointed to her own face for emphasis, "I thought I saw an angel."

Rorschach smiled faintly beneath his face. _Me too._

He stepped outside the clinic moments later, gazing out into the glistening night. The storm had passed, leaving behind the smell of ozone. It gave the city the illusion of cleanliness. Out there, he knew, there were thousands of women and girls and young boys selling their bodies. Most cared only for the habits such activities fed. But a few, a precious few, desired something better. Yet they dared not attempt to leave, for their lives were not their own. They were ruled in terror and brutality by greedy men who viewed their charges with less compassion than a butcher would a helpless lamb. Rorschach's gloved hands curled into fists. Tonight terror would visit them.

Inside, Chloe filled a bucket with hot water, added the strongest disinfectant she could find, and took it to the bloodstained nursing station. She knelt, dipped a sponge into the soapy mixture, and began scrubbing away the night's grisly reminders while outside the masked hero set out on his quest. So they went, each cleaning up the night's mess in their own way.

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Chloe finished as the first rays of dawn penetrated the thinning clouds. She dumped the pink water, put the bucket and sponge away, and stumbled up the steps to her apartment. There she stripped out of her ruined shirt and sweatpants, stuffing the clothes into the trashcan, and made her way to the bathroom. She spent nearly an hour standing under the streaming showerhead, head down and eyes closed in weariness. After, she dressed in fresh clothes and carefully went back downstairs. Rachel and Maria had already arrived and stared at the exhausted woman in surprise.

"What the hell happened to you?" Maria asked. Chloe told them. They were heartbroken over Mimi's death. Rachel needed to walk away to get a hold of herself.

"You should go back upstairs," Maria said, wiping her eyes, "You're in no condition to work today."

Chloe nodded, but instead of returning to her little apartment she went outside. The last trailing clouds scudded across the blue sky and sunlight streamed down onto the gleaming wet city. Despite the chill, Chloe went to her usual spot at the wall and slid down until she sat on the cold pavement, heedless of the wetness soaking into her pants. She sat with her head thrown back, her eyes closed, letting the autumn sun warm her.

Minutes later, she sensed she was no longer alone. Chloe opened her tired eyes. A figure stood over her, silhouetted in the morning light. For a moment she thought…but no, he wouldn't be so foolish. She squinted and the silhouette resolved itself into the street prophet, minus his sign. Chloe managed a little smile. "Hi." She patted the wet pavement beside her. "Wanna help me prop up the wall?"

He wordlessly moved to the place she indicated and lowered himself down beside her. They sat in silence, not looking at each other. Surprisingly, it was Kovacs who spoke first. "You okay?"

"Didn't sleep," Chloe murmured, staring ahead at nothing, "Bad storm. Never could sleep during them. Byron used to stay up with me, even though he thought it was silly." She smiled faintly.

"Byron?"

"My husband. He died…mmm…six years ago." God, had it been that long? "There was a fire," she continued before Kovacs had a chance to figure out a less than blunt way of asking. "Whole building went up. I got out. He was behind me," she swallowed, "I thought he was behind me." Somehow, her nearly emotionless tone made those brief words all the more tragic.

"I'm sorry," the street prophet said, looking at her.

Chloe turned her head towards him. Her hazel eyes shone with unshed tears and her lips curved in a sad, ethereal smile. "He would've liked you."

Kovacs stared. He didn't know what to say to that.

The woman's eyes drifted shut. A tear ran down her cheek, unnoticed. "I'm very tired," she whispered.

"You should sleep," Kovacs said, worried for her.

"Yeah." Chloe slowly leaned to her right. Her head came to rest on his shoulder. Kovacs tensed. The slow evenness of her breathing told him she had fallen asleep. Despite his own discomfort with such closeness, he held himself still. The woman had exhausted herself trying to save the girl and her unborn child, and when her efforts failed she had held her composure to give one last bit of comfort so the poor victim would not have to suffer dying alone, then she'd spent the rest of the night cleaning up her blood. Not even Rorschach, for all his ferocious strength, could have found it in him to do all that. So the street prophet let her sleep. He could do that much for her.

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"Rache," Maria nodded towards the door, her hands busy applying disinfectant to a diabetic's foot ulcer. The younger nurse turned and gasped in surprise. A man with red hair entered the clinic, a slumbering Chloe in his arms. He regarded her with unsettling blue eyes. Warily, Rachel gestured for him to follow her. She led him up the back stairs to Chloe's apartment. On the landing, she gingerly reached into the sleeping woman's hip pocket for the key and unlocked the door. Rachel hovered nervously in the doorway as the redhead entered the little apartment. He immediately went to the bed and lowered his burden onto the mattress. Chloe's hands gripped the lapels of his ratty coat. She mumbled something plaintive and unintelligible. The man gently freed himself from her grip.

"Shh."

He pulled her shoes off, drew the covers over her. Chloe sighed and snuggled deeper into the bed's soft comfort. The red haired man watched her sleep. His hand moved of its own accord to brush a strand of hair behind her delicate ear. The corner of her mouth twitched. The man turned, walked past the amazed Rachel without a glance of acknowledgement. He stepped out of the clinic into the bright morning.

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**A/N: There you have it; my longest and darkest chapter yet. And to head off all you nitpickers out there, I am well aware that Chloe never gave her name to Walter's Rorschach persona. But I figured, given the circumstances, neither one of them would have noticed the slip.**

**Thank you all again for your wonderful reviews. They motivate me all the more into continuing this story. I will be posting another chapter soon. :-D**


	5. Immaculate Dream

**A/N:** I am _thrilled _by all the reviews! They've kept my spirits buoyed all week. But I can't take all the credit. My story wouldn't be half as good if Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons hadn't written such a wonderfully wounded and complex character (and in my humble opinion the best character in the graphic novel). I also have to give a shout out to Jackie Earle Haley whose dark and heart-wrenching performance solidified an already enthralling Rorschach. Okay, love fest over.

I had a tough time figuring out how the heck I could follow up my previous chapter. Then I discovered the benefits of a full 8 hours of sleep! No, I don't remember what I might've dreamt (No, I'm not English; I just think "dreamt" looks prettier on the page than "dreamed"), but my now alert mind finally conjured this. I must warn you, it does get kinda sappy towards the end. Hope you all like it.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor the musical works of Bob Dylan.**

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_She held Mimi's hand, gazed into her watery eye, watched the light inside it fade. She closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the empty shell that was once a breathing human being and sobbed._

"_Chloe."_

_Her eyes flew open. Standing before her on the other side of the suddenly empty table was Byron, wearing his favorite green flannel shirt and jeans. Mimi stood beside him, her baby cradled in her arms, both healthy and whole. They all regarded Chloe with soulful eyes. She looked at the girl, wishing she could ask her forgiveness in her failure to save her and her child. She looked at her husband, wishing she could tell him how much she missed him. The spirits seemed to understand and smiled warmly. Then their gaze shifted as, from behind her, a pair of hands rested themselves on Chloe's shoulders. A warmth enveloped her; a feeling of acceptance, and with it, peace. Byron nodded gently, his eyes full of love as he gave his silent blessing. Chloe crossed her arms over her chest and laid her palms over the hands on her shoulders, warm and alive. She smiled across the table at the spirit of her beloved, who blew her a kiss. Chloe turned to see who stood behind her--_

She woke in her bed. Foggy half-memories surfaced: sitting outside, the street prophet's return, the sensation of being lifted. Chloe stretched and rolled out of bed. She padded to the kitchenette, fixed herself a PB&J sandwich and a glass of milk. After eating she took a quick shower, changed into her scrubs, and walked downstairs to the clinic. The others were already there tending to the early patients. Maria waved her over.

"Well, look who's back." Maria smiled, concerned eyes searching the other woman's face.

"How long was I out?" Chloe asked.

"All day and night."

Chloe gaped. "You mean it's _Friday_?"

"Yeah. You up for this?"

Chloe nodded, thoughts of her dream in the back of her mind. She went to the vacant nursing station and called over the next patient.

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The previous night…

_Shouldn't be here. Didn't see her at the clinic, leaning on the wall. Just see if she's alright, then go. _

_Window slides open easily. Room is dark and silent. See the shape of her under the blanket. Hasn't stirred. Step close to hear her breathing, slow and even. What does she dream, I wonder. The dying girl with blood and pain? Her husband, lost to her? Cannot tell from her face. Lean in close to see. Her face is relaxed. Her eyes roll beneath the closed lids. Long eyelashes. Lips are slightly parted and her breath moves in and out in a quiet rush._

_Should go. Should keep away. Being here's too distracting. Evil takes advantage of my inexcusable absence. It infests the city like a plague. The work, the endless work. Can't stop, just like she said. Don't want to stop. Don't want to go._

_She stirs. I freeze. What will happen if she wakes, finds me here? Doesn't wake._

_LEAVE. _NOW. _Turn from the sleeping woman. Out the window, into the cold night. Tell myself I won't return. Won't return. _

_Know that it's a lie._

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Kovacs reached the intersection leading to the free clinic and didn't turn away. He continued towards it, hating himself for his weakness. But the sight of her there, in her signature blue scrubs and her long curly hair tied back in a ponytail, leaning against the wall as always this time of day, made his heart race and brought a strange fluttering sensation to his stomach. It was the most uncomfortable feeling he had ever experienced, and yet he didn't want it to fade. Was this what addiction felt like? This overwhelming compulsion? Chloe noticed his approach and her face split into a brilliant smile that only intensified the sensations he was experiencing. There were a few more worry lines around her eyes and mouth, a slight stoop to her shoulders, but these were the only visible signs of the ordeal she had suffered.

"Hey," she said, "Thank you for tucking me in. That was quite chivalrous of you."

"Welcome," he mumbled, trying not to meet her eyes.

She patted the wall beside her. "Wanna keep me company?"

_No,_ Rorschach snarled. Kovacs ignored him, moved to lean his back against the cool bricks. He set the butt of his sign's long handle on the pavement and gripped the top to keep it from falling over. They stood awhile in silence, Chloe relaxed and watching the passersby while Kovacs agonized over what to do next. Should he say something? She'd asked him to keep her company and all he was doing was standing there. But what did he have to talk about? He'd been socially inept his entire life. He had no experience with casual conversation. He peeked at her from the corner of his eye. Was that boredom on her face? Did she already regret sharing her wall with him? _Say something!_

"You wear a lot of blue." Brilliant.

Chloe turned to him, her expression friendly and open. "Sure. I love it. It's nature's most vibrant color. Like the sky."

Kovacs turned his eyes skyward. The cleansing effect of the storm had passed after yesterday's brightness and the perpetual brown smog had returned. Chloe followed his gaze and laughed. "Well, maybe not _that_ sky. Like…mmm…" She looked around for a better example. Her hazel eyes met the street prophet's and she grinned. "Like your eyes."

Kovacs blinked. "Mine?"

"Uhuh. They're very intense. I think they're your best feature."

He quickly turned his gaze straight ahead, ears burning. He felt a light tug on his sleeve and reluctantly swiveled his head towards her again. Chloe's smile was gone, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. "I know I make you uncomfortable sometimes. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "'S okay."

"I really do like talking to you. It's nice to have someone really listen without their eyes glazing over," she chuckled softly. "I could really use a good listener right now."

"Okay."

"When I fell asleep against you, after the storm," Chloe swallowed, visibly composing herself, "The reason I was so tired was because…someone died the night before. A girl I knew, she--someone hurt her real bad. The ambulance couldn't reach us in time." Her chin trembled, but she didn't cry. She sighed, shifted against the brickwork. "Bad things happen sometimes. Place like this, it's kind of inevitable. Sometimes it really gets to me. Do you think," she turned to him, "that God made the world this way to test us? Put the pressure on to see how evolved we really are?"

"No," Kovacs answered without hesitation, "God didn't make the world this way. We did."

"Yeah. I thought as much." She pushed off from the wall, checked her watch. "Break's over. I gotta get back. Will you be here tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

He nodded.

"Good." She flashed a mischievous grin. "Maybe I'll give you another sucker."

He very nearly smiled at that. "Alright." He watched her walk away, her steps lacking their usual jauntiness. But her back was straight and her eyes looked resolutely ahead.

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He rarely dreamed, but when he did they were nightmares. Hellish recollections of his mother, striking him, screaming at him, fornicating with strange men; the meat cleaver arcing down into the child killer's skull over and over; Blaire Roche screaming for her daddy as the German shepherds tore into her flesh. Yesterday he dreamed of the girl Mimi, her death replayed with dreadful clarity, the sounds she made when her baby was lost, and the engulfing despair in Chloe's eyes when she knew her efforts were in vain. He'd awoken with his fists knotted in the ratty blanket and biting into his pillow to stifle the screams.

Today, as the glow of false dawn silhouetted the buildings, Rorschach returned to his foul little apartment hoping his night's exertions might have banished any further dreams. He removed his face, his clothing, and hid them under the floorboards. He bathed, for he was fastidious about personal hygiene, despite what he led others to believe. He used the sink, since his apartment did not include a tub or shower. The bottle of odorous cologne sat next to the soap dish in readiness for when he woke and doused himself. His ablutions finished, he slipped into a pair of faded boxers and got into bed, the tired bedsprings squeaking under him. Lying on the thin mattress with the lumpy pillow beneath his head and the threadbare covers drawn over him, he let the exhaustion overtake him and slept. And dreamed--

_--of warm sunlight. He stood in front of the Gunga Diner dressed as Rorschach but holding his street prophet's sign. The passing figures of pedestrians were indistinct blurs of color. One of them stopped, turned, and resolved into a clear image. It was Mimi, her belly protruding, her face and body unmarred by the damage she had sustained that dreadful night. A tiny Mona Lisa smile graced her youthful features. She stepped towards him until there was less than a foot of distance between them, gazed up at him with her dark eyes, waiting._

_Rorschach felt the same burning tightness in his throat as he did whenever little Blaire crept into his thoughts. A taste of the hell that awaited him for his failures, of which there were so many._

"_I'm sorry," he choked, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."_

_Mimi smiled, reached up to grip the bottom of his face. He didn't resist as she slowly peeled it off. He closed his eyes briefly as the latex fabric slid over his eyelids. Fully exposed, he opened his eyes and gasped. Mimi was gone, replaced with Chloe. She gently cupped his ma--Walter's face, her hazel eyes penetrating his._

"_I forgive you," she whispered. She leaned towards him. He felt her breath on his lips--_

"Don't talk back to me, you little shit!"

Walter jerked awake. The landlady was screeching at her children again. He lay in his bed letting the noise wash over him, the dream still fresh in his mind. A tear slowly ran from the corner of his eye down towards the pillow.

What was happening to him?

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Nightfall. Rorschach set out. There was a man pushing amphetamines on the streets. Rorschach broke his arm to get the name and location of his supplier. He found the man at Happy Harry's Bar & Grill. Not surprising; every criminal went there sooner or later. It gratified him to see the abject horror in Happy Harry's face as he stepped through the door into the filthy smoke-filled establishment.

"Ruh-Rorschach!" the fat balding man squeaked, "W-what brings ya here?"

"Man, thin, blonde hair," the vigilante rasped, "Drug dealer."

"Well, ah, th-that don't ring any bells, but…feel free ta look," he finished weakly as Rorschach sauntered away from him and deeper into the pervading gloom. _Please, God, don't let my insurance premiums get any higher._

The bar had fallen into a hush upon his entrance; the silence of the forest as the tiger wanders through in search of prey. As he passed the seated figures nearest him leaned away, giving the appearance of waves parting before him. Most of the bar's clientele stared fixedly into their drinks as if fascinated by the watery contents. Rorschach noticed one man trying to sidle his way behind an empty booth, tall and emaciated with long dirty blonde hair. Upon realizing he was spotted, the skinny man tried to make a break for it. He leapt over a table, scattering drink glasses and earning him shouted curses. Rorschach was not so hampered in the semi-crowded bar; the people scuttled out of his way the second they knew which direction he was headed. He caught the terrified drug dealer well before he reached the exit.

"I didn't do nothin'!" the man cried. Rorschach twisted his arm behind him and jerked viscously. There was an audible _pop_ as the shoulder dislocated. The skinny man shrieked. With his other hand, Rorschach searched the man's pockets. In one he found a sizable wad of cash; in the other, several baggies full of pills. "Hurm."

"Shit, man. They ain't mine. I was just holdin'em for a guy--_auugh!_"

"That's what other dealer said. Highly unoriginal." Rorschach kicked the man's legs out from under him. The blonde's face hit the hardwood floor with a loud smack. "Where do you get the drugs?"

The man groaned. "Fuck you."

Rorschach brought his heel down on the dealer's outstretched hand, breaking two fingers. "Again, unoriginal."

"Er." Happy Harry twisted the bar towel in his hands, realizing he was playing with fire. "S-sorry to interrupt, but c-could you" _gulp _"ma-maybe take this outside? I-if it ain't too much trouble," he added quickly as Rorschach turned his unsettling eyeless gaze on him. The entire bar held its collective breath as they awaited the vigilante's response.

"Hmph. Fine." He grabbed the whimpering man by the collar of his shirt and dragged him out the door. The entire bar let out a relieved sigh.

Happy Harry mopped his sweating brow with the towel. Mother was right; he should've been an accountant.

The skinny man needed little additional persuasion to give up his supplier, a man calling himself Ogre. A small time drug manufacturer. His lab was established in an abandoned warehouse. Rorschach found it easily enough. He approached the crumbling structure stealthily, a scrounged rebar in his hand in case he ran into any trouble. He did. A hulking mastiff lumbered out of the darkness, chuffing like a steam engine. Rorschach dodged its oncoming charge and struck it with the iron bar. The creature emitted a surprisingly high pitched wail and collapsed. It struggled to its feet, its left foreleg curled against its body, and cringed as Rorschach raised his weapon again. Seeing the fight was out of this adversary, the vigilante continued towards his goal. He found a way inside via a large hole in the wall. He could dimly make out a light source farther in. He crept through the darkened interior, carefully avoiding the rubble scattered on the floor, making silent passage through the warehouse tricky.

Tinny music reached his ears; a portable radio tuned to a rock station. Hendrix's _Purple Haze_. How appropriate. He followed the sound. The lab, such as it was, had been set up in the most structurally stable part of the building. Grimy cooking pans, glass beakers and a Bunsen burner--probably stolen from some high school--hooked to a propane bottle. Hundreds of baggies of the finished product occupied a small folding table. Further along Rorschach found a makeshift living area: sleeping bags on the floor, ratty couch, mini fridge plugged into a car battery. Bare light bulbs cast their sickly light through the room; do doubt powered by tapping into the power grid. A man and woman were on the couch. The man was nearly as short as Rorschach, with blotchy olive skin and long greasy black hair hanging over his eyes. Rorschach couldn't tell what the woman looked like, other than the fact that she was brunette; she was giving the man a blow job. Beneath his face, the vigilante grimaced in disgust. He sidled closer to the distracted couple, rebar at the ready.

A gold tooth gleamed in Ogre's mouth as he grimaced. "That's right, baby." He tilted his head back. His eyes opened to see a man without a face standing over him, arm raised to bludgeon him. "Oh shit!" The drug manufacturer rolled off the couch as the rebar smacked down where his head had lain. He landed hard on the floor, his woman beneath him shouting in protest. He scrabbled to his feet, pulling up his pants, and reached for a handgun sitting on the cable spool that served as his coffee table. Rorschach moved unbelievably fast. In a blink he was beside the frantic criminal bringing the metal bar on his reaching arm. The forearm bent where he'd struck as if possessing an extra elbow. Ogre shrieked in horrified agony. The rebar struck again, this time across his mouth. There was a sickening wet crunch as teeth were shattered from gums and the drug man fell back with his mouth a ruined bloody pulp. Rorschach brought the rebar up to finish him off.

"_Motherfucker!_"

Rorschach ducked just in time to avoid the wildly aimed bullet. The woman screamed obscenities at him as she struggled to wield a ridiculously large revolver clutched in her petite hands. The vigilante darted forward and kicked her legs out from under her. Her head struck the corner of the mini fridge with a terrible crunch, leaving blood and bits of scalp on the white enamel. She lay sprawled on the floor, twitching, as blood pooled around her head like a crimson halo.

Rorschach turned from this grim sight to discover Ogre trying to escape, dragging himself with his unbroken arm while blood and saliva oozed from his gaping mouth. Rorschach calmly walked over and drove the rebar through the man's back like a spear. The impaled drug maker gurgled and writhed like a worm on a hook, then went still.

Rorschach set about cleaning up. He trashed the small lab, took the filled baggies and piled them onto the ratty couch. He then dragged the bodies to the couch and dropped them onto it as well, Ogre on top of the woman in some grim parody of their previous activities. He found a bottle of whiskey and poured half the contents over them, put the half empty bottle in his overcoat pocket for later use, then dragged the propane bottle over and turned the valve. There was a hiss of escaping gas. Satisfied, Rorschach started to leave when he heard a faint sound. Puzzled, he went to where he believe it emanated. There was an old milk crate in the corner. He peered in, felt the bile rise in his throat.

It was a baby. Naked, save for a diaper which hadn't been changed in some time, judging from the smell. Its exposed skin was covered in gooseflesh. Rorschach's gloved hands balled into tight fists. _That heartless whore. _If he'd known about this he would not have made her death so quick. He quickly scrounged through the living area until he found a sweatshirt to wrap the baby in. He carefully lifted the infant from the crate, its head lolling on its weak neck, and gently placed it on the waiting garment. He wrapped it in the makeshift swaddling and lifted the tiny bundle into his arms. For a second, the image of Mimi and her baby flashed through his mind. The baby didn't make a sound, just stared at his shifting face with heartbreaking apathy. He carried the baby away, not even sparing a glance for its dead, inadequate parents.

Outside, Rorschach carefully placed the bundle at his feet; he would need both hands for what he planned next. He took the half full whiskey bottle out of his pocket along with a handkerchief. He soaked the handkerchief with the alcohol, stuffed it into the bottle's neck. The pulled a box of matches from another pocket, shook one out, struck it on the heel of his shoe. He lit the soaking handkerchief, then hurled the Molotov cocktail through the hole in the warehouse's wall.

_FOOM!_

The sound frightened the baby. A thin wail emanated from the bundle at Rorschach's feet. He gently lifted it into his arms, cradled it. "Hush."

He reached into yet another pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper with his symbol scrawled on it. He set it on the ground, weighted it with a stone, then turned and walked off into the night.

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_Night of the Living Dead_ was playing on late night TV. Chloe was curled up in her chair eating Chinese takeout and watching the reanimated dead shamble across the 13-inch screen. It was nearing the moment when the car exploded and the zombies gathered around to eat the remains of the hapless couple; the best part of the movie. Chloe leaned in, chow mein dangling from her lip.

_Tap, tap._

"Goddammit," she groaned. Chloe swallowed the mouthful of food, set the carton on the coffee table, and rose from her seat. Eyes still fixed to the TV, she edged over to the window and lifted it open. She saw from the corner of her eye the by now familiar coated figure climb inside and shut the window behind him one-handed. He was apparently carrying something.

A commercial cut in just before the first walking corpses started digging into their meal. Chloe sighed, turned to her surprise guest. "You know, we really gotta stop meeting like th--" Her eyes widened as she realized what was cradled in his arms. "Oh my god."

"Found it," Rorschach told her, "Abandoned."

Chloe touched the baby's forehead. Its brown eyes stared up at her. "Come on." She went to the door, down the stairs. Rorschach followed close behind with the baby.

Among its other services, the free clinic provided basic necessities to mothers who found themselves in a financial bind. Chloe grabbed a package of diapers, wipes, and diaper rash cream while Rorschach laid the baby down on an exam table. Chloe laid the items beside the feebly squirming infant, then went back into the storeroom, returning a moment later with a baby bottle and a box of powdered formula. "Here," she thrust them into the startled vigilante's hands. Rorschach stared at them as if they were some incomprehensible artifacts.

"Go on," Chloe made shooing motions with her hands, "The kid'll be hungry." She turned to her charge, allowing herself a smirk as she heard Rorschach's retreating footsteps.

"Okay, we're gonna get you all nice and clean, then get some nice food in your belly. How's that sound?"

The baby stared.

Chloe peeled the sopping diaper off the infant, wincing at the severe rash she found underneath. It looked horribly painful, but the baby--a girl--didn't make a sound as the nurse gently wiped the reddened skin and applied a generous amount of ointment. She then put on a fresh diaper and wrapped the child in the sweatshirt once again. "There you go. Doesn't that feel better?" She picked her up and carried her back upstairs to the apartment.

Rorschach had managed to follow the instructions on the formula box without setting anything on fire. He carefully poured the white liquid into the bottle and twisted on the cap with its disturbing rubber nipple. Chloe arrived with the baby in her arms just as he was about to go back downstairs. He handed her the full bottle.

"Thanks." Chloe tested it on her wrist, a truly impressive feat considering her other arm was occupied with holding the infant. Satisfied, she then eased the rubber nipple into the baby's mouth. After a moment's pause instinct took over and the baby began to suck. "There we go," Chloe cooed. She carefully supported the baby's head in the crook of her elbow.

"Something wrong with its neck," Rorschach said. His low voice held a twinge of worry.

"Neglect often stunts a baby's development," Chloe replied, "Don't worry. She'll catch up once she's in a good home." She smiled at him. "Thank you for bringing her here."

Rorschach nodded, acknowledging her words both spoken and unvoiced; they had both needed this, a life they could save.

The baby finished quickly. Chloe set the empty bottle on the counter. She pulled a clean dishtowel from a drawer and draped it over her shoulder, then switched her hold on the baby so the girl's head rested on her shoulder. She patted the infant's back, swaying gently. "We're gonna call Child Services tomorrow," she said in a light voice, making Rorschach realize she was speaking to the child and not him, "and they'll come and take you to a nice new home. They'll find you a mommy and daddy who'll love you to bits, and you'll never remember this rough start to your life."

The baby made a noise. "Urp."

Chloe smiled, still rocking the child against her shoulder. She began to slowly pace her little apartment, back and forth, humming. After a moment, she began to sing a slow, poignant song.

"_Oh I'm sailing away, my own true love._

_Sailing away in the morning._

_Is there something I can get you from across the sea_

_From the place where I am landing?_

_There's nothing you can send me, my own true love._

_There's nothing that I wish to be holding._

_Just carry yourself back to me unscarred_

_From across the lonely ocean._

_But I just thought you might like something fine_

_Made of silver or golden._

_Either from the mountains of Madrid_

_Or the coast of Barcelona…"_

Rorschach watched as the woman strolled unhurriedly, back and forth, her face serene. The baby's eyelids grew heavy from the soothing rhythm of her movements and the lulling croon of her voice.

"_But how can you, how can you ask me again_

_When you know it brings me sorrow?…"_

He had never seen anything so beautiful.

"…_Take heed of the stormy weather._

_Yes, there is something you can run back to me._

_Spanish boots of Spanish leather."_

Against her shoulder the baby slept, and dreamt of warm contentment.

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**A/N:** See? Sappy. What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic!

The song Chloe serenades us with is _Boots of Spanish Leather_ by Bob Dylan. The version I heard was actually performed by a folk music band from Ireland called Dervish and its on their album "Spirit." The first time I heard the lead singer's soulful voice sing those poignant words I had that image in my mind: a woman pacing back and forth singing her baby to sleep. It really does sound like a lullaby.

I felt that after what happened in the last chapter, our two heroes needed a small win. I hope it sits well with all of you. I know I enjoyed writing it.


	6. Chloe's Day Off

**A/N:** I had a heck of a time figuring out what this chapter should be about. Sorry it's a short one, but I promise to keep on posting. This story ain't done yet!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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After Rorschach left, Chloe put an extra blanket in her laundry basket to use as a makeshift crib, then tucked the baby in. She put the basket beside her bed to more easily hear if the little girl woke in the night. The next morning, after washing, feeding, and changing the baby one last time, Chloe carried her down to the clinic area where Maria and Rachel were already preparing for the day. They were shocked and delighted, cooing and doting over the little squirming bundle while Chloe placed a call to Child Services. They arrived shortly to take the infant into custody.

"Bye, baby." Chloe stroked her downy hair, kissed her forehead. The baby gazed at her alertly, already showing improvement from a few hours' attention. Chloe felt a bittersweet pang as she watched the infant disappear into the social worker's vehicle and drive off to begin her new life. She headed for her station to take her mind off it with work when Maria intercepted her.

"What're you doing?"

Chloe frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It's Saturday, remember?" Maria smirked at the other woman's perplexity. "Your day off? Morgan's on his way over to fill in."

"Oh, crap! I forgot I lost a day sleeping." Chloe winced. "But wouldn't that count as a day off? Maybe I should just--"

"Hell, no! You've already skipped your last two days off," Maria scolded, "You need a break. Now get outta here." She grinned. "We'll survive one day without you."

Chloe gave a short, rueful laugh. "Fine, I'll go."

"That's the spirit!" Maria patted her shoulder and headed back to her station.

Shaking her head, Chloe went back up to her apartment. Since she was free for the day, she might as well make an attempt to thin out her book collection; her poor shelf was starting to groan under the accumulated weight. Chloe dug out her hideous white plastic tote bag with the zipper on top and loaded it with as many paperbacks as she could bear to part with. She would take them to the bookshop for trading and hopefully leave the place with fewer books than she'd taken in.

She decided to wear her skirt today. Chloe normally wasn't into girl stuff, but she liked the way this skirt looked on her. Deep blue (of course) with dark purple and indigo patterns. It swirled around her when she moved and made her think of gypsies and faraway exotic places. For a top she put on a black sweater that wasn't baggy and wasn't too tight. She brushed out her graying hair, let it hang loose around her shoulders. She smiled at herself in the mirror hanging on the bathroom door; hardly recognized herself without her scrubs. Satisfied, she slung the heavy tote over her shoulder and headed out the door.

It was a nice day, if a bit cloudy. Not too cold. Chloe strolled the eight blocks to the little bookstore without any particular hurry. FAR-OFF PLACES: USED BOOK STORE, the painted sign over the door declared. A bell jingled softly as Chloe entered the shop and smiled at the mingled scents of old paper and fresh coffee. Bester, the shop owner's tuxedo cat, lounged in one of the old wingback chairs scattered throughout the place, doing what bookstore cats did best, i.e. sleep. Chloe gave him a friendly stroke before approaching the counter where a bored twenty-something man thumbed through a copy of Asimov's _Foundation_. Chloe set her tote bag on the counter with a _thunk_. "Hi. I'd like to exchange these."

The clerk reluctantly set his book aside and unzipped the tote. His eyebrows rose as he viewed the contents. "You read all these?"

"Yep." Chloe hooked her thumb towards the shelves behind her. "Mind if I look around while you tally those?"

"Sure," he muttered absently as he pulled out the used volumes and stacked them in front of him.

Chloe wandered through the shop, now and then pulling out a book to read the synopsis on the back. Let's see…Philip K. Dick's _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_, Andre Norton's _Moon of Three Rings_, Foster, Sturgeon, Van Vogt… She soon had her arms loaded with paperbacks. She hurried back to the counter and spilled her acquisitions in front of the clerk. The two exchanged amused, sympathetic looks.

"Well," the clerk said a few minutes later, "your store credit just about covers it. You owe us ninety-three cents."

Chloe dug a dollar out of her skirt pocket. "Thanks. I don't need the change." She hefted her moderately lighter bag and left the shop. _Jingle._ Outside the clouds had grown thicker, the air had that pre-rain smell. _Long as it's not a storm_, Chloe thought with a shudder. Too many bad things happened during storms. Despite the changing weather, she decided to take a more circuitous route home and enjoy the walk. Maria was right; it had been too long since Chloe had taken the time to unwind. She forgot how pleasant it was to just amble along, nowhere in particular to go. Perhaps she'd find a restaurant and eat lunch there instead of making something at home. That'd be a treat. She turned a corner and saw a newsstand ahead, run by an overweight older white man wearing an old-fashioned cap like they had in the Depression-era. He was in the middle of a heated discussion with a rough looking woman who had a copy of _Hustler_ tucked under her arm. A young black teenaged boy was sitting against a hydrant reading a comic book, a cigarette in his mouth.

"Alls I'm sayin' is this whole union strike thing sounds a little too commie-like," the newsvendor said.

"So you're sayin' it's _fair_ how th' company gets a cut of our tips?" the woman bristled, a fearsome sight.

"Christ, Joey! I ain't sayin' that. I'm just sayin' cuttin' off the public transport'd be a great step in crippling this here capitalist city--" The man paused mid-rebuttal, eyes drawn to an approaching figure. "Aw, hell."

Chloe followed his gaze and beamed. The street prophet came, sign towering above him, his face an inscrutable mask. The newsvendor rallied a nervous smile and reached for a paper he had set aside specifically. "Here, y'are," he called before the weirdo reached him, "_New Frontiersman_, hot off the press."

Kovacs reached into his pocket, pulled out the appropriate change. He folded the paper and tucked it into his coat.

"World hasn't ended yet, I see," the newsie observed.

The street prophet regarded him with flinty eyes. "We'll see." He walked away, much to the newsvendor's relief, and noticed a smiling black woman in his path. He froze as recognition came, eyes widened in surprise.

"Looks like _I'm_ following _you_,now," Chloe laughed. Kovacs frowned; he didn't like to be surprised. Didn't like the way his eyes took in every detail of her, how different she looked in ordinary clothes rather than her androgynous scrubs. She looked…pretty. "Why are you here?"

"Took the day off," she said, switching her tote bag to her other shoulder. She gave a little chuckle. "This feels weird, seeing you away from the clinic. I was gonna grab some lunch somewhere. Wanna come?"

"No." He wasn't prepared for this. He didn't know how to react with her outside her environment. It was difficult enough whenever he met with her at the clinic.

"You sure?" she persisted, "I'm buying. You were such a gentleman when I conked out on you the other day, least I can do is get you a sandwich or something." Her smile was winsome, teasing, bordered on flirtatious. The Walter part of him could not resist.

"Alright," he murmured. Damn.

Chloe beamed. "Great! Put your sign away and let's make a day of it. I'm betting you could use a break, yourself." Kovacs hid his sign behind a dumpster with great reluctance. He walked beside the woman, eyes cast down and hands stuffed in his pockets. Chloe pointed ahead. "Hey, how about that place?" The Gunga Diner. Kovacs shrugged. They went inside. The place smelled heavily of fried meat and cooking grease; the kind of place where "salad" consisted of a few limp lettuce leaves and a _lot _of dressing. Chloe liked the place immediately. They took an empty booth by the huge front window. Chloe pulled out a paper menu and started reading, but Kovacs didn't bother as he always had the same thing.

Christine winced when she saw the crazy redhead come in. The guy freaked her out and he never left a tip. Then she noticed the woman with him and the waitress's eyebrows shot up. What the hell? She approached their booth cautiously and deposited two glasses of water. "So…what can I get ya?" she asked the woman.

Chloe scrutinized the menu. "Oh, I guess I'll have the turkey club. Just the sandwich, please, nothing for the side."

"And to drink?"

"Coffee."

Christine jotted it down, then turned to the man who stared out the window as if expecting someone. "The usual?" He nodded. The waitress walked away. _Lady doesn't _seem_ crazy,_ she thought.

"You eat here a lot?" Chloe asked.

"Sometimes." Kovacs pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser and absently tore off a corner, still watching the street outside. Chloe didn't push him for a conversation. She had grown comfortable with his silence. She watched his hands shred the napkin, long slender fingers and bruised knuckles, and thought about their relationship. If Rorschach was a feral dog, then the street prophet was an alley cat, battle-scarred and furtive, for whom an act of kindness, like as not, was a cruel prelude to a kick in the ribs. Yet he still responded to kindness, albeit cautiously, because deep down inside he longed for something more than bare survival. This wasn't quite accurate as an analogy, though. Chloe pitied alley cats; she didn't pity him. She enjoyed spending time with him, learning to interpret those fleeting expressions that snuck past his defenses, his infrequent words. She liked the rare moments when his eyes looked at her with an intensity that made her insides quiver, and the foggy memory of him carrying her to her bed, how safe and content she had felt. Things she hadn't felt in years; thought she'd never feel again without at least a little accompanying guilt. But there was no guilt. Chloe smiled.

The waitress returned with their food. Kovacs's usual was a hamburger. For him food was uncomplicated, a means of replenishing his body's energies and nothing more. Chloe watched in amusement as he added a ridiculous amount of sugar to his coffee, threatening to overflow the cup. The silence between them continued as they ate. When they finished, Chloe paid the tab and left a tip for the waitress, then they exited the diner. The clouds hung low over the city, the sun a vague white disc in the sky. The rainy smell was stronger. A few fat drops patted softly on the pavement, splashed against men and women hurrying to find cover.

"Uh oh," Chloe said, walking faster. There was a building ahead with a huge green awning which she and her companion headed for. The rain hit with the suddenness of a faucet turned on. Chloe laughed in astonishment and started running, Kovacs beside her. They stopped under the awning, drenched, panting from exertion. Chloe laughed breathlessly, her eyes shone. Her long graying hair was plastered to her head and neck, her clothing clung wetly to her body. Kovacs couldn't help but stare.

"Thought you hated storms," he muttered. Chloe shook her head. "Thunder and lightning, yes. I love rain." She looked at him, head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed in scrutiny. She pointed to her cheek. "You got something on your face."

Puzzled, he wiped his hand over his cheek, skin rasping against the stubble. "Better?"

She shook her head. "C'mere." She beckoned him closer. Rorschach wanted to pull away, but Walter leaned closer, his cheek turned for her inspection. He felt her fingertip brush against him. "It's right--" It happened quickly; she darted forward, her lips brushed against his cheek, feather light, and she stepped back with a mischievous grin. Kovacs gaped at her, his face growing hot. "W-why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to," she answered, voice quiet and smile subdued. The intensity in his eyes was there again, stronger than ever. Chloe's heart pounded in response.

"_Aahhh! No!"_ The screaming was close. Kovacs didn't think, just reacted. He ran towards the sound. Three or four passersby stood at the mouth of an alley, wide-eyed and unmoving. The red haired man elbowed through them. A man with a snub-nosed revolver was robbing two young women. Kovacs slammed into him, but the man did not go down. They struggled on the wet pavement, rain drumming down around them, while the victims cringed and the witnesses stared impotently from the alley mouth.

Kovacs felt cold metal pressed under his chin. "Back the fuck off," the mugger snarled, shoving the smaller man from him. Kovacs lunged towards him again, teeth bared in rage, heedless of the weapon pointed towards him. He was fast, he could reach him before--

_SLAM!_ A white blur struck the side of the mugger's head, knocking him against the wall. The gun fell from his numb fingers and Chloe darted forward to snatch it up and point it at the stunned man. Her plastic tote lay on the ground where it had fallen.

"Shoot him!" Kovacs shouted.

"No. He's not going anywhere," Chloe's voice was calm, her hand held the gun steady. "Would somebody mind calling the police?" Someone from the watching crowd ran off. The mugger groaned, rubbed his head. "The hell…?"

"Police won't hold him," Kovacs growled, "He'll be out assaulting more innocents in a few days. No one will blame you for defending yourself. Shoot him."

His words brought a deeply troubled look to her face. Her eyes kept shifting to glance at the street prophet. "No. I won't do that."

"_Shoot him!"_

"N--"

The robber lunged, roaring in fury. Chloe shouted in alarm and dodged, swung the gun. It connected with the back of the man's head, just behind the ear, and he crashed to the sodden pavement, unconscious. "Shit!" Chloe's nervous giggle had a hysterical edge, "I can't believe I did that." She met the street prophet's eyes. There was none of the earlier intensity, only anger and disappointment. It made the laughter die in the woman's throat and the smile vanish from her face. The distant sound of approaching sirens reached them. The street prophet turned, walked through the growing crowd which parted easily for him, and disappeared. Chloe stood in the drenching rain, let the revolver drop from her fingers. It landed in a puddle with a splash. High above her, thunder rumbled.


	7. Sugar

**A/N:** Well, here's another longer chappie! The two song verses book-ending this are taken from "Alone" by Heart and "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan, two beautiful songs of unrequited love. I felt they fit the situation quite well.

This chapter gets pretty emotional towards the end (it IS a romance, after all). I know it had an effect on me while typing it, so better keep the tissues on standby. ;-)

Oh! There's also some pretty nasty language in parts (including use of the N-word, but fear not, the guy gets his comeuppance). You have been warned.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor the musical works of Heart or Sarah McLachlan.**

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_You don't know how long I have wanted_

_To touch your lips and hold you tight._

_Oh, you don't know how long I have waited_

_And I was going to tell you tonight._

_But the secret is still my own_

_And my love for you is still unknown._

_Alone._

The rain stopped by the time the cops had finished questioning her. Chloe went home, dejected. As she entered the clinic Rachel called out to her. "How was your day off?"

"Great," she mumbled, dragging herself up the steps to her apartment. She tossed the plastic tote into a corner and stripped from her wet clothes. Her skin was freezing. She took a hot shower, slipped into her blue terrycloth robe. Back in her little living area, she switched on the TV and sprawled on her bed. The mindless saccharine tune of _The Brady Bunch_ theme washed over her. Chloe hated that show, its perkiness and its homogenized all-American whitebread family. She hoped her irritation with the show would distract her from the crappy end to her day. She was wrong. Once the commercial break started her treacherous mind returned to that terrible incident in the alley.

The street prophet had run towards the screams before they even registered in Chloe's mind. She'd dashed after him, but he was so fast he pulled ahead of her. She'd caught up, shoved her way past the crowding gawkers in time to see the enraged redhead storming towards a man with a gun. A gun pointed at him! It was panic that made her hurl the heavy tote bag at the man, luck that brought it slamming into the side of his head. She saw the gun fall from his hand and snatched it up without a thought. Everything was going to be okay! Her friend was safe.

Then the street prophet had told her to shoot. It had terrified her, the coldness in his voice; terrified her more when coldness turned to rage.

"_Shoot him!"_

"N--" And the man had rushed at her. So fast. She hadn't time to think about it, just did what instinct told her to do. And her instincts had not involved pulling the trigger.

The look in his eyes. Only moments before she had felt on fire from those eyes, but what happened in that alley, her inability to pull that trigger, brought only coldness from him. And then he'd left without a word; just disappeared through the crowd. Chloe didn't know whether to be angrier with herself or with him. She hated this feeling, not knowing if he would come back, not knowing if she should turn him away. His voice…

Chloe punched the pillow angrily. Goddammit! Her life had been so uncomplicated a month ago. She hadn't been particularly happy, but she hadn't been miserable, either. Now it seemed as if her emotional wellbeing hinged on an unstable man whose name she didn't even know, even after all those weeks of chatting with him. It was all too crazy! Maybe she'd be better off if he stayed mad at her and didn't come back; let her life return to its predictable pattern. _You mean "rut,"_ the no-nonsense voice in her head sneered.

"Shut up," Chloe growled. The commercials ended; elegantly coiffed boys and girls frolicked on the Astroturf lawn.

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Clint's mom bailed him out, as always. He thanked her with an absent "see ya," then sauntered out of the police station, smirking at the pigs' ineptitude. Those weepy little bitches wouldn't have the balls to press charges against him. He knew their type; squeeze out a few tears, make the usual I'll-never-do-it-again sob story, and they'll lose all heart in locking poor little him away. That midget freak who'd come at him wouldn't be a problem, either. He was just some crazy homeless guy. Nobody'd listen to him, even if they found him. It was that nigger bitch who'd be a problem. Anybody'd clock him with his own gun without hesitation wouldn't fall for a few crocodile tears. Besides, he owed her for the lump on his head. Tracking her down shouldn't be too tough. Then him 'n' her could share a little quality time together. Clint grinned.

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Kovacs watched as the mugger sauntered out of the police station and proceeded to follow him. He didn't have his sign, and he had a stocking cap pulled over his distinctive red hair. The scumbag didn't notice he was being tailed. Stupid, arrogant. It was almost too easy.

The rage was a steady glow in his belly. It hardened his resolve. The memory of that brief moment when the man had lunged for Chloe, the split second when Kovacs _knew_ she would be harmed, even killed, and him unable to prevent it, was more than he could bear. It was his own fault. He should have taken the gun from her, put a bullet through the bastard's head. If he had been thinking clearly…but his mind had still been muddled from that fleeting kiss. His cheek still tingled where her lips had touched. It had distracted him, made him weak. He never should have told her to shoot. She was too good for that, too pure. She didn't have it in her to commit coldhearted murder, even on someone who clearly deserved it. Rorschach _did_; it was what he was made for. And Rorschach would make sure that scum would never harm another innocent, especially Chloe.

His lips pulled back in a snarl of anticipation. Tonight.

It was cold; a thin rime of frost coated the dying leaves of the trees, thin crusts of ice formed on the standing puddles. Rorschach approached the tenement, a shadow among shadows. He brandished his grappling gun, fired. The hooks caught on a ledge high above and the vigilante climbed the brick wall to the third story window. It opened easily; the fool didn't bother to lock it. Thought he was safe this far above with no fire escape. Rorschach entered the darkened interior. It stank of marijuana and fornication. Snores emanated from a closed door. The vigilante quietly turned the knob, let the door glide open. The robber sprawled naked in his rumpled bed, a black-haired whore beside him. A drop of saliva glistened at the corner of the man's mouth. His snores were asthmatic pig grunts.

Rorschach unwound his soiled white scarf from his neck, twisted it into a cord. He held it taut between his fists as he approached his slumbering victim. Funny, despite the wheezing din, the whore somehow sensed his presence and woke. The sight of the shadowy figure with the shifting face brought the expected reaction: she shrieked, rolled out of bed, and ran into the bathroom. The door lock clicked.

Clint woke with a snort, stared with bleary eyes. "Th' fuck?"

Rorschach leapt onto the prone man, coiled his scarf around the man's neck and pulled. The man's eyes bugged in alarm, his mouth gaped. He thrashed on the bed, trying in vain to dislodge the wiry attacker perched on his chest, strangling the life from him. In desperation he clawed at the vigilante's trench coat. His fingers caught on one of the shoulder straps and yanked it loose, the button tumbling away into the general mess of the bedroom. Rorschach bore down, snarling behind his face. He watched in satisfaction as his victim's movements grew feebler. The man's tongue jutted from his mouth obscenely, his face turned an alarming shade of purple. In Rorschach's mind he saw this monster coming at Chloe, her unable to move fast enough and falling under the larger man's weight; saw huge hands wrap around her slender neck and twist. Rorschach screamed in rage and pulled the makeshift garrote even tighter, until the flesh of the man's neck bulged on either side of it. Finally, stillness.

Gasping, Rorschach slowly unwound the scarf and draped it over his own neck once again. He slowly climbed off the corpse on the bed, turned, walked out the bedroom door to the open window. Somehow managed to lower himself to the ground without falling. So tired.

In Clint's apartment, the hooker peeked cautiously from the bathroom. The john lay on the bed in pretty much the same position as she'd left him, except now there were no explosive snores. His chest didn't move up and down with his breathing. Trembling, yet unable to resist her morbid curiosity, she crept from the bathroom and approached the still form. Despite the darkness, she was able to see the gleam of his bulging eyes, his protruding tongue. The hooker choked, clamped a hand over her mouth. "Oh god," she groaned, turning away. She couldn't stay here. What if that…_thing_ remembered her and came back to finish the job? She grabbed her clothes, threw them on, spent a few precious seconds groping through the pockets of Clint's discarded jeans for cash, then fled into the night. She left the apartment door open, which was the only reason Clint's body was discovered so quickly. By morning, the room swarmed with police.

Detective Steven Fine stared at the corpse. Despite the fact that the victim was a known scumbag, the brutality of the murder still got to him. This was hate, pure and simple. Strangulation was up close and personal, the unnecessary force behind the act spoke of uncontrollable rage. Detective Fine had seen similar corpses over the years. Though the calling card was not always present, in the back of his mind he knew who the perpetrator was; Rorschach, last of the masked heroes. Steven Fine's unicorn.

"I wanna know everything this guy's done, everywhere he's been in the last forty-eight hours," he said to his balding partner.

"Sure, Steve."

The detective turned away from the sorry remains, thinking of masks and retribution.

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"Mrs. Whitfield?"

It took a moment for Chloe to realize the man was asking for her; nobody had called her Mrs. Whitfield in years. She turned from cleaning up her station for the next patient and found herself facing a tall, strikingly handsome white man with blonde hair and wearing a trench coat. Obviously not from this neighborhood. His slightly arrogant stance and flinty gaze marked him as a cop.

"Yes?"

The blonde whipped out his badge. "Detective Steven Fine, Homicide."

Chloe almost laughed. Good lord, the name sounded like a stripper's. "Um, how can I help you?"

"Is there somewhere we could talk privately? I have a few questions regarding a case."

Puzzled, Chloe let the others know she was stepping out for a few minutes and led the detective outside, to her usual spot by the wall. "Go ahead."

"Mrs. Whitfield, you were involved in a mugging recently, were you not?"

"There was a mugging," she nodded, "I wasn't really involved until I foolishly rushed in like some masked hero. Why?"

Fine reached into his trench coat, pulled out a photograph, held it up. "Is this the mugger?"

The face in the photo had a waxy, unreal look to it. His neck was a wide band of blackened skin. The zigzag stitches of the top of the coroner's Y-incision were just visible on the man's bare shoulders. Chloe swallowed. "Yes," she croaked, "What happened?" "Someone broke into his place last night. Strangled him."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah, his mother thought so, too."

Chloe winced. "What does this have to do with me?"

"When you intervened with his robbery," the detective said, "witnesses claim there was a man with you. Red hair, kinda shabby."

"He's a friend."

"This friend have a name?"

"I'm sure he does, but he's never told me."

Fine's eyebrow quirked. "Must not be a very close friend, then."

Chloe crossed her arms and returned his stare evenly. "He's just a homeless guy that showed up at the clinic one day. We get a lot of those."

"Hm. Any idea where this friend is now?"

"No. Sorry."

Detective Fine tucked the photo back into his trench coat. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whitfield. I may have some more questions at a later time."

"Well, you know where I am." Chloe turned, walked back into the clinic. Steven Fine watched her leave, a thoughtful look on his face, then turned and walked back to where he'd parked his car. He was unaware of the red haired man watching from the shadows of an alley, his sign behind him leaning against the wall.

Kovacs carefully unwrapped a sugar cube, popped it in his mouth. _Crunch._ He flicked the wrapper into a dumpster. Hurm. Pig questioning Chloe. Must've found the body already. Found out about her at the mugging. Slim lead, but… Better to keep his distance for the time being. Keep her out of it. Kovacs turned, picked up his sign, and wandered off. Two hours later, Chloe stepped outside once again to take her break. Though she searched the milling pedestrians, she saw no sign of the street prophet. _Guess he's still mad at me_, she thought sadly and went back inside to her work.

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A couple of days later, Detective Fine made his second appearance. This time he brought his partner, a dumpy, balding man whose name slipped Chloe's mind almost immediately after being introduced. Chloe spoke with them outside once again.

"More questions about the mugging?"

"No," Fine said, "This is about a couple of other cases I'm covering. I think they may be connected."

"Oh?" Chloe was curious in spite of herself.

The detective had a manila folder under his arm. He pulled it out, flipped it open. "Do you know a Jesus Sanchez?"

Chloe grimaced. "I know a lot of Sanchezes, and quite a few Jesuses. Can you be more specific?"

"You might know him better as Lobo?" Detective Fine watched as the nurse's expressive face turned stony. Interesting.

"Yeah," she said coldly, "I know him. Treated more than a few of his girls. Why?"

"He was found dead on the night of that big storm. Same night one of his girls died in your clinic, as a matter of fact."

"Mimi wasn't his girl anymore. She quit." Chloe swallowed. "That's why he hurt her."

"You believe he was the one who beat her? Did she say that?"

"She wasn't in any shape to say much of anything."

Fine nodded; his expression seemed genuinely sympathetic. "In your statement that night you said a man brought her to the clinic. Anyone you knew?"

"No, I'd never seen him before."

"You have a description of him?" He knew damn well she'd given a description to the cops. Chloe frowned in annoyance. "White, tall, brown hair."

"Pretty vague. Can you remember anything else?"

"I was a little preoccupied." She was gratified to see a fleeting expression of embarrassment on the man's face.

The detective shut the folder. "Were you aware that same night four other suspected pimps were found beaten to death?"

Chloe crossed her arms, eyes wary. "You think that guy might've done it?"

Fine shrugged. "Too early to think anything." _Right. _He traded folders with his silent partner, flipped the new one open. "Ever hear of Horton Morris, a.k.a. Ogre, or Stephanie Martinez?" When the nurse shook her head, he continued, "Horton Morris was a small-time amphetamine manufacturer and dealer. Stephanie was his live-in girlfriend. They were found two days after the storm in the abandoned warehouse they were staying in. Morris's lab had been trashed and his and Stephanie's bodies were beaten and burned."

"Jesus!" Why was he telling her this? A feeling of dread crept over her.

"We asked around," Fine went on, watching her face carefully, "Some of Morris's 'clientele' mentioned he and Miss Martinez had a baby. When we searched the place, though," he shook his head, "No baby. Oddly enough, the next morning you, Mrs. Whitfield, reported an abandoned infant to Child Services. A girl, in fact, who matches the description of Morris's missing infant."

Unseen by either policeman, Chloe's nails dug into the soft flesh of her arm. The pain distracted her, kept her face neutral.

"When did you say the baby was left here, Mrs. Whitfield?"

"Around ten-thirty."

The detective frowned. "Clinic's closed by then, isn't it?"

"I live on the second floor." Chloe pointed out the narrow window facing the street; the one without the fire escape. "I heard a noise. Came down to investigate and found the baby in front of the door."

Fine's partner spoke up for the first time. "Heard something all the way up there?"

"That's right."

"Can you describe this noise?" Fine asked.

"No." Her tone was casual, as if he'd offered her a glass of water. Mild annoyance flashed over the detective's features. He decided to ask a more direct question, just to gauge her reaction. "Do you know a man named Rorschach?"

"If you mean the vigilante," she replied coolly, "I know _of_ him. Just stuff I pick up from the news, radio, stuff like that." She smirked. "Why? D'you think Rorschach left a baby on my doorstep?"

_Wouldn't put it past him._ Steven Fine closed the second folder, tucked it under his arm. "I just find it interesting how all these incidents are somehow indirectly linked to you or this clinic."

The nurse shrugged. "Not in this neighborhood. The clinic's the closest thing to a hospital around here. Anyone gets hurt, they rush over here."

Fine nodded. "Makes perfect sense. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Whitfield." He and his partner turned, started to walk away. After a few steps, the detective suddenly turned. "Oh, one more thing," he said, casual as Columbo, "Clint Darrow, the mugger who got strangled…"

Chloe frowned. "Yes?"

"Turns out he wasn't alone when he was attacked. We found a hooker who claims to have been at the scene. Just before she locked herself in the bathroom she got a good look at the killer." He smiled in false amusement. "Said it was a man with no face."

Chloe felt as if the world were opening up beneath her feet. Her mouth opened of its own accord. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Hell of a thing." The detective tipped an imaginary hat. "See you around, Mrs. Whitfield." And with that, he and his partner got into their vehicle and left.

Chloe slowly listed to the side until her shoulder came in contact with the wall. She lifted a hand to cover her mouth. Oh god. He couldn't…couldn't be… She squeezed her eyes shut. In her memory she heard the voice yell _Shoot him!_ That voice; hard, pitiless. A rasp. Chloe covered her face with both hands and sobbed.

From the alley, Kovacs watched in growing rage as Chloe wept. Those bastards. How dare they drag her into their sordid dealings? "Protect and Serve." Where were they when Mimi was brutally beaten or the baby starving from neglect? Where were they when that scum committed his robbery in broad daylight? They only sought to protect their own interests, to serve the corrupt leaders who allowed such atrocities to occur. He would not let them harm Chloe. She was one of the few, the precious few good people in this cesspool of a city. She did not deserve to be treated in such a way as to leave her crying in the open. With a snarl, Kovacs turned away from the tragic scene and stormed off. Rorschach had work to do.

Later that night, two known police snitches were found bound and gagged to a parking meter, brutally beaten. They had choked to death when a large dead rat was stuffed down each of their throats. Pinned to the collar of one of them was a scrap of paper with Rorschach's symbol scrawled on it. The bodies were well away from the free clinic's neighborhood.

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Sometimes, late at night when the lights of her apartment were out and sleep wouldn't come, Chloe would stand in front of the fire escape window and peer out into the night. It was always too dark, since the city still hadn't repaired the streetlight, but there was enough ambient glow from the distant lights and business signs to cast the surrounding area as a series of silhouettes. Sometimes, if she looked real carefully, she could swear there was an extra shadow on the roof of the neighboring building, or out on the street. A shadow resembling, say, a shortish man in a trench coat and fedora hat. In those moments she was tempted to throw open the window and shout at him, though what exactly she'd say she had no idea. It was a moot point, anyway; she never opened the window.

In the few days following Detective Fine's second appearance, Chloe spent her break each day searching the faces of the ever-passing crowd for a familiar shock of red hair or ice blue eyes, or a sign proclaiming THE END IS NIGH. But the street prophet did not appear. Maybe he never would. The thought saddened her more than she ever could have predicted.

Kovacs, meanwhile, continued with his work. In daylight, he wandered the twisting streets of New York bearing his sign, scouting for foul deeds in need of retribution. At night, Rorschach stalked the darkened alleys, meting justice with his fists and his insatiable rage. But sometimes an overwhelming urge took hold and he would abandon his duties to watch over the little clinic and the nurse who dwelled within it. Watched in hiding as she leaned against the wall, searching the passing faces with a sadly hopeful expression, only to go back to work, dejected. Watched at night from the rooftop as her blurred silhouette passed the curtained window, or even when the lights were out and there was nothing to see but more darkness. Her sadness cut him, yet he kept his distance. He would only put her in more danger if he insinuated himself into her life again. She would get over her sadness, he told himself. He didn't let himself think about his own.

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Rorschach crunched on another sugar cube as he walked. Needed energy. Hadn't slept since Chloe had crept into his dream…how many nights ago? Couldn't remember. Bad sign. Needed rest, but sleep brought dreams and he couldn't bear another dream with her in it. There but not there, touching but not touching. Waking alone, still hearing her voice. _No._ Wouldn't put himself through that. He walked and soon, to his relief, he heard the distinctive sounds of fighting ahead. He quickened his pace.

Knot-Tops. Three of them. Beating a homeless man. Rorschach picked up a broken bottle from the ground, snuck up behind one and stabbed him in the neck. The gang member went down, gurgling, as his remaining compatriots gaped.

"Oh, fuck!" one of them shouted. His face clouded with rage as he looked at the intruder. He pulled out a switchblade. _Snick!_ "C'mon then, fucker. Want somma this?" He waved the weapon menacingly. His companion pulled out his own blade and began circling to the left. The homeless man, forgotten, took the opportunity to scrabble to his feet and scurry away. Rorschach stood impassively, broken bottle in hand. The Knot-Tops lunged.

After. Adrenaline wore off. Rorschach could barely stand. This was it; complete and utter exhaustion. He could do no more tonight. He desperately needed sleep. Rorschach dragged himself along, step by agonizing step, trusting his instincts to guide him to his apartment (he never thought of it as home). It was only when his gloved hand touched the familiar wall, an eternity later, that he realized his feet had erred. They had taken him to the clinic. _Idiot._ With a low growl, he started to shuffle away.

The sound of a hastily opened door, bare footsteps on pavement. "Wait!"

_No, don't stop._ But his treacherous body did not listen. He stopped, turned to face her. Chloe approached in her blue bathrobe, her long hair damp from her nightly shower. She looked so vulnerable out in the darkened street. She stepped close to him, eyes staring intently. "I need to talk to you." She tentatively gripped his sleeve, tugged, gentle yet insistent. In his weakened state, the vigilante couldn't resist and followed her as she led him inside the clinic. She kept hold of his sleeve as she took him up the stairs to her apartment. His steps were slow, hesitant. As the door shut, she turned to face him. It was dim inside her little apartment; only the light from the hall leading to the bathroom was on. She stared at Rorschach's slowly shifting face.

"What?" he rasped dully, too tired to be irritated.

"There's something I need to know," she said. Slender hands reached up, fingertips touched the bottom edge of his face.

Rorschach's gloved hands shot up, gripped her wrists with almost bruising force. _"Don't."_

She stared at him with her sad hazel eyes, unafraid of his terrible strength, how easily his hands could break her. "Rorschach," she said quietly, "I have to _know_. You owe me that, at least."

He was tired. He was weak. He hadn't the strength to fight her. Rorschach released the woman's hands, pushed his fedora from his head and let it fall, gripped the edge of his face and peeled up. The latex fabric slid from his skin. He stood before her completely exposed.

He looked terrible, even in the dim light. His cheeks were covered with several days' growth, his red hair a tangled mess. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He practically swayed on his feet.

Chloe's hand went to her mouth. "God, I'm such an idiot." Her hand withdrew from her mouth, started reaching out to him. "I should have known."

Her hand. Towards his face. Rorschach flinched from her, voices from long past echoed in his mind. _Whoreson…I shoulda had the abortion!…_ His blue eyes stared at her. Chloe had seen the look in those eyes too many times before--in children, in wives and girlfriends--a look that said _I did something bad. I did something bad and you're going to hurt me for it._ Tears welled in the nurse's eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you," she whispered. Her hand reached out, slow and gentle, until her palm rested against his stubbled cheek. Kovacs blinked his stinging eyes. His body trembled with repressed emotion. "Chloe…"

"Shh." She brought her other hand up to cup his face. "It's alright. Whatever you might've done, I forgive you."

He whimpered. A tear spilled down his cheek, wiped away by a gentle thumb. Chloe leaned towards him, her eyes filled with tenderness. He closed his eyes, felt her breath on his lips. Her mouth against his, soft and sweet. She smelled of lavender soap. His breath tasted of sugar. They ended the kiss reluctantly, foreheads touching.

"Come on." Chloe tugged; he followed, unresisting, as she led him to her bed. She helped him shed his overcoat, draped it over the chair. She pushed down on his shoulders until he sat on the bed, then coaxed him into lying down. As she drew away, he grabbed her arm. "Don't go."

She gently disentangled herself. "I'm not going anywhere." She went to the other end of the bed, eased his shoes off, pulled the covers up. She climbed in beside him, the narrowness of the mattress bringing their bodies together. Chloe left the hall light on, knowing intuitively that he needed to see her. She gazed into his tired eyes, whispering words of comfort, stroking his face, his hair, kissing his forehead, his cheeks. His eyelids grew heavy under her gentle touch, drifted closed. His breathing grew heavy and even.

"Sleep," Chloe murmured tenderly, "I'll be right here when you wake up."

_And I would be the one to hold you down,_

_Kiss you so hard, I'll take your breath away._

_And after I wipe away the tears,_

_Just close your eyes, dear._


	8. Giving In

**A/N:** Well, for better or worse, I've decided to finally stop torturing Rorschach and Chloe and let them get to it--and if you can't guess what "it" is, then you're too darn young to be reading this. ;-) This is my first ever love scene, so _please_ keep that in mind when you review. **Falls to knees, hands clasped, "Please, please, please!"**

More importantly, this chapter marks the full-fledged resurrection of Walter's persona, long thought dead after the Blaire Roche case. I think it'll be interesting to see how he conflicts with the Rorschach persona in future chapters. Enjoy!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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Kovacs woke to the unfamiliar sensation of contentment. He opened his eyes; his face was just inches from the slumbering Chloe's. She lay with her eyes closed, the corner of her mouth upturned, while morning light filtered through the window, casting silvery highlights in her graying hair like a halo. _Still dreaming,_ he told himself. But this did not have the unreal quality of a dream. He reached out tentatively, touched her sunlit hair. Chloe shifted in her sleep. Kovacs jerked his hand away. Not a dream. He wracked his memory for how he ended up here, felt growing dread as it all came flooding back. Oh god, he'd taken off his face! She _knew_! She'd _kissed _him and now they were in the same bed together--and she was wearing nothing but her bathrobe! His face grew hot at the realization. His treacherous eyes wandered to the front of her robe to where it had loosened in the night, exposing a deep V of brown skin, the swell of a breast. Kovacs swallowed.

He was on the side of the bed against the wall, the open side blocked by Chloe's slumbering form. Maybe, he thought, if he wriggled down to the foot of the bed he could sneak off without waking her. He was just about to implement his retreat when the woman beside him breathed deeply and stretched herself like a cat. He felt the sinuous movement down the entire length of his body and shuddered. Chloe's eyes opened, met his. She smiled. "Morning. Feel better?"

He nodded feebly. Her eyes; she had no idea how they affected him. So many fragments of color strewn together, becoming more pronounced with her emotions so they rimmed her pupils like miniature sunbursts. Green for anger, gray for sorrow, and of course, blue for joy. Her eyes were very blue at that moment.

"Have to be at the clinic?" he asked quietly.

Chloe checked the alarm clock. "Not for a while." Her mouth curved; beautiful, full lips bracketed with smile lines. He remembered kissing those lips, remembered her hands on his stubble-rough cheeks. He desperately wanted to shove those memories away, but she was so close to him. He could feel the heat radiate from her body.

Chloe stretched again, rolling onto her back, and nearly fell off the bed. Only Kovacs's quick reflexes saved her from spilling onto the floor. His arm wrapped around her and yanked her back onto the mattress where she wound up pressed against him. Chloe giggled into his shoulder while he tried desperately to think of anything but this woman's body against his. "This bed really isn't made for two," she chuckled. She tilted her head back to look into his eyes. She could see the tension in his carefully blank face, felt it in his rigid body. Her own body tingled in reaction to his closeness. Her hand slid around his waist, under his shirt. She ran her fingers along the skin of his lower back. He shivered in response. His breathing grew husky; the pupils of his eyes dilated.

"Do you want me to stop?" she whispered.

Kovacs squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away. "Y-yes." He didn't see the hurt on her face. He felt the hand withdraw from his skin, her body pull away as she rose from the bed. There was a chill where her warmth had been. He opened his eyes to see her heading for the kitchenette.

"You must be hungry," she said, voice neutral, "Why don't you go have a shower while I fix something?" Chloe heard the sounds of the bedsprings as he rose, his footsteps as he headed down the short hall, then the click of the bathroom door shutting. _Stupid woman, _she thought, _practically threw yourself at him._ She'd pushed too hard, scared him off. All because she'd let her hormones do the talking. It had been so long since she'd let herself be aware of herself sexually. She hadn't felt these urges since Byron died. Now that she was, who did she fall for? A man who spent his nights roaming the streets and back alleys in a mask beating the shit out of muggers and rapists. A man who flinched from the most casual touch. She'd only been able to kiss him last night because sheer exhaustion had weakened his resolve. Christ, she was a molester!

Chloe yanked the fridge door open; nothing breakfast-wise. Grabbed the lunchmeat, lettuce, mayonnaise, slammed the door shut again. She stomped angrily to the counter, grabbed two slices of bread from the breadbox, and set to making a sandwich.

Meanwhile, as the hot water cascaded over him, Kovacs experienced his own self-reproach. It was disgusting, his desire for her. Chloe didn't deserve someone like him, someone who did the things he did. A whoreson. If she touched him in any way it was only out of pity. It couldn't possibly be for anything other than that. Could not have been desire he saw in her eyes when she ran her fingers over the skin of his back. With a shudder, he turned the hot water off. Icy jets pummeled his body, yet the desire remained as did its evidence. Kovacs glowered down at the loathsome thing. Control. _Control._ But it was no use. Kovacs leaned his forehead against the tiled wall. His right hand crept to that repellent part of his anatomy, grasped it. Bile rose in his throat as he tended to his basest need. He climaxed within moments, though it brought no satisfaction. He cleaned up, turned off the water, and stepped out of the shower. Dried, he dressed in his rumpled clothes.

Chloe had changed into her scrubs while he was in the bathroom. He found her staring at the photo of her and her belated husband, her long hair tied in a ponytail. "Sandwich on the table," she muttered.

Kovacs looked at the sandwich; it was sitting on a white plate, a paper napkin folded neatly beside it. She'd even cut it in half; two neat triangles. He almost smiled at that. He wrapped the sandwich in the napkin and put it in his pocket. He slowly walked up to her rigid back, hesitated. He slowly placed his hands on her shoulders. She tensed, then let herself relax under his touch.

"Chloe," he said quietly, "I can't make you happy." He stepped away, hands sliding off her, and went out the apartment door. Down the steps, though the crowded clinic, outside. Without his face he was invisible; just another homeless man.

Chloe crossed her arms over her chest, placed her hands where his had been. She swallowed a hard lump in her throat. "Yes you could."

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Nightfall.

He heard the angry shouts, the screams. He ran down the nighttime streets towards the noise. There, two men grappled with a third. Another man had a woman pinned to the ground. There was the sound of tearing fabric, a scream.

Rorschach grabbed the would-be rapist in a headlock, twisted. _Crack!_ Let the body fall aside, head lolling. The woman wriggled away, sobbing. Rorschach spun, kicked the knee of another attacker. Cartilage popped. The man fell screaming in agony. The screams ended in gurgles as Rorschach stomped on his neck, crushing his windpipe. The other man took care of the third attacker, knocking his head against a fire hydrant. The woman ran to her bruised and bleeding husband. Her torn blouse hung open, revealing a light colored bra. "Baby, are you okay?" She cupped the man's face, kissed him tenderly.

"I'm fine. Did they hurt you?" She shook her head.

Rorschach frowned. There was something familiar about the husband. The battered man looked to their savior. His eyes widened for a second, then the brow creased and his bloodied mouth smirked. "Looks like God really does have a sense of humor. Remember me, freak? The Cash-N-Go holdup?"

Understanding dawned. Yes, Rorschach remembered. Back when he was partnered with Nite Owl, before the Keene Act. They had arrested this man while robbing a check cashing service. "Let you out," he rasped.

"Got paroled two years ago. Met my Emma," he smiled fondly at the woman, "Been straight ever since."

Rorschach had serious doubts, but chose to remain silent.

"You better go," the man said, "Don't wanna end up where I was." He grinned. "_You're _the criminal, now."

Rorschach left, but not in a hurry. An anger was growing in him; not the all-consuming rage against injustice, which was familiar and welcome, but a new anger. It wasn't fair, he thought, that a thief should find a wife and build his happiness around her, while the vigilante who'd imprisoned him stalked the city streets alone. A few months ago, he'd never have given it any thought. It was simply the way things were, the way he'd chosen. But then he met Chloe, and suddenly it wasn't enough. He hated the feelings she brought out in him, the terrible _wants _the thoughts of her evoked. He wished sometimes he could hate her for that, but it was impossible. Wished his mind would stop trying to name the feeling in him, but it was relentless; he was losing the battle.

_Don't think about it. Don't think it. Don't._

He loved her.

Rorschach balled his fist, smashed it into a wall. He welcomed the pain, the distraction it brought, but it didn't last. Nothing did. The memories assaulted him mercilessly: Chloe kissing him, Chloe touching him, Chloe sleeping beside him. Her hazel eyes, her mouth, her long neck, supple hands. Her easy laugh. Her mischievous, gentle, sad, loving smiles. Her scent.

She was lonely, too, he realized. Ever since her husband died. Maybe she thought he could fill the void left behind, if only for a few moments. Maybe that's all it ever was or would be. It made more sense to him than the idea of her reciprocating his emotions. Yes, that must be it. She was lonely, and he had left her alone. Would it be kinder to go back? To be with her? He trembled at the thought, fear warring with desire. Go back…stay away…

_Go back._

He followed the route to the clinic.

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Chloe stepped out of the lit hallway into the darkened room, tightening the belt on her bathrobe. It had been a long day. She was tired and not a little depressed. She wouldn't stay up, she decided. Just turn in early.

"Chloe."

She yelped, startled, and spun to face the source of the voice. Her wet hair slapped her face and she angrily brushed it aside. "Jesus!" she cried, recognizing the shadowy figure in the dark apartment. "You scared me."

He stood before her silently. Images whorled across his mask, impossible to interpret. He took a step, another. Chloe remained still, neither advancing nor retreating from this familiar apparition. Closer, close enough to touch. Her heart began to pound in her chest. His gloved hands found their way around her waist. Chloe gazed at his morphing visage, enraptured. Her hands reached, found the bottom of the mask, peeled upwards. A mouth was exposed, lips slightly parted, breathing slow and heavy. She brought her own mouth to it. The kiss was deeper than the one she gave him last night. Deeper and stronger. She slipped her tongue past his lips, his teeth, exploring with gentle probes. His own tongue came in contact with hers, touching and sliding. She pressed herself to him and felt the bulge against her lower belly. Their mouths parted reluctantly.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked her.

She pulled the mask the rest of the way off, letting it and his hat drop to the floor unheeded. She kissed the tip of his nose. "No."

Kovacs pulled off his gloves, let them fall. He cupped her face, ran a thumb over her full lips which parted in response. He kissed her again, deep and wanting. Their heated breaths mingled. His hands glided down the sides of her neck, slid under the robe, across the skin of her shoulders. The garment slipped from her body, puddled at her feet. Chloe pushed his overcoat off him, fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and peeled it off as well to join the growing pile of clothing at their feet. Her mouth left his as she trailed kisses over his jaw line, down his neck. He moaned as she lightly bit his shoulder. His own hands wandered to her breasts, hardened nipples rubbed against his palms. He caressed them lightly until she put her own hands over his and pressed them harder against her.

"Don't have to be so gentle," she teased breathlessly. Her mouth collided with his. His rough hands kneaded her sensitive breasts while her own hands unfastened the button on his pants and unzipped the fly. She reached inside, grasped the hardened shaft. Kovacs moaned into her mouth. Chloe pushed his trousers off his lean hips to drop around his ankles. She backed him towards the bed, still kissing. His feet tangled in his pants and he tripped, landed on the mattress with a startled grunt and a squeak of protesting bedsprings. Chloe giggled. She knelt, removed his shoes, socks, pulled the pants off and tossed them aside. She then stood and went to the little nightstand while Kovacs pulled himself the rest of the way onto the bed. She reached into the little drawer, pulled something out. She approached the bed with it clutched in her hand, straddled him, her knees bracketing his thighs, and opened her hand. It was a condom. Kovacs looked at her in surprise.

"Um, the clinic gives these out sometimes and…" Chloe's face darkened in a blush, "I thought, y'know, better safe than sorry…"

He caught the back of the embarrassed woman's head, drew her into a kiss. She leaned into him, relishing the feel of his lips, his tongue. God, he was a good kisser. She tore open the little packet, pulled out the condom, put it on him. They were both too ready, too eager to take it slow. They rolled on the narrow mattress until Kovacs lay on top of her. Chloe grasped his latex-sheathed member, guided him into her. She was tight from years of celibacy. He had to ease himself in carefully, eyes squeezed shut and jaws clenched against the howl that struggled to escape. His body screamed for quick release, but he forced himself to go slow, slow, until she was able to take his entire length to the hilt. Chloe wrapped her legs around him, held him inside her. Both panted heavily from the effort of restraining themselves. Finally, Kovacs moved his hips in an experimental thrust, drawing himself partway out and plunging back in. Chloe moaned in response, her hips bucked against him. They soon found a rhythm, their movements rough with desperate need for completion. Small sounds escaped Chloe's mouth, higher and higher. Their thrusts became faster, harder. Her fingertips dug into the flesh of his back, nails threatening to break the skin. Her eyes opened, gazed into his. A moment of pure connection. Then she cried out, back arched, her inner muscles clamped around him. Kovacs roared as he spilled into the condom. Their bodies collapsed, spent and sated, limbs entwined. They glistened with sweat, him on top of her, his softened length still nestled inside of her. Perfect bliss. Almost.

"Walter," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

Chloe's eyes opened. "Huh?"

He raised himself onto his elbows to better meet her eyes. His carefully blanked expression was oddly tense around the mouth, the eyes. "My name is Walter."

Chloe gawped, then burst into laughter. She laughed until tears streamed from her eyes. It was all she could do to stammer the next sentence. "I…I'm p-pleased to meet you!"

Walter grinned.


	9. It Cannot Last

**A/N:** C'mon, we all knew it wasn't gonna be that easy for him!

This chappie contains more naughtiness. I didn't plan it that way, honest! It was all spur of the moment. I promise the next one will be longer and have more plot to it.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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When Chloe woke the next morning, Walter was gone. She felt a brief stab of disappointment until she saw his fedora carefully placed on the center of her coffee table. She smiled; he wouldn't have left it by accident. She rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom to shower, the lingering soreness between her legs a reminder of the previous night's activities. A euphoric smile graced her features all through her morning preparations, and she practically glided down the steps to the clinic. Maria took one look at her and grinned slyly. "Looks like _somebody_ had a good night."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Chloe responded primly, even as a grin spread across her face.

"Like hell! If you were glowing any brighter I'd have to put on some shades."

Young Rachel finally caught on. "You _slept_ with someone?"

"Eventually." Chloe laughed.

"Oh. My. God!"

The other two nurses clustered around her like sharks at a gossip feeding frenzy. "Who was it?" "Somebody we know?" "Was it that hot new guy at the--"

"It's nobody you guys know!" Chloe interjected quickly. "He's a very private person. _Very_ private." She eyed them significantly. The others deflated slightly.

"Can you at least tell us if it was any good?" Rachel begged. Chloe rolled her eyes. "Well, it _had _been six years since the last time I'd had sex, so I don't think you can rely entirely on my opinion. But," she smiled, "Yeah. It was not at all disappointing."

"'Not at all disappointing,'" Maria echoed, "Gosh, that's sounds so romantic." They laughed. Then the first patients arrived, ending all further discussion.

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The newsvendor saw the weirdo's approach and braced himself. He had the day's issue of _New Frontiersman_ in hand and he plastered an almost sincere smile on his pudgy face. "Hey, there! World gonna end today?"

Kovacs regarded the newsie with his usual blank expression, but something about his eyes… The older man frowned slightly. They seemed less…cold.

"No," the redhead answered evenly, "Not today." He handed the appropriate change, stuffed the folded paper into his pocket like always. Then he did something that nearly made the older man's jaw hang open; he said "Thank you."

"Uh, yer welcome." He stared as the man with the doomsday sign strolled off. _He's finally cracked! Any second now he's gonna come at somebody with a machete screamin' bout the aliens in his head._ But though the newsvendor kept his guard up the whole day, there were no such mishaps. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or not.

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Walter was troubled. It had to have been a mistake, what he did. What _they_ did. Things were so much more complicated now. Rorschach hated complications. For him, everything was either/or; left or right, good or evil, black or white. But this…he had no category for this new emotion that all but overshadowed his worry. Walter was _happy_. At least, the thought he was. He'd never been truly happy before. He had plenty of experience with _un_happiness before, so he assumed what he felt now must be the opposite. It was very distracting.

_Shouldn't have done it,_ Rorschach growled, _Gave in to basic animal drives. Mindless fornication--_

No, it wasn't like that! Those rare moments when his body had betrayed him and he'd been forced to relieve it with his hand, _that_ was mindless. Those terrible moments had always left him feeling soiled, debased. He hadn't felt that way with Chloe; not entirely, anyway. It hadn't just been his own pleasure he was satisfying; it had been hers as well. That realization, knowing she was in ecstasy and it was his actions that brought her there, had given him a satisfaction no amount of masturbation could achieve. That wasn't mindless. Was it?

_It won't last,_ the disembodied voice snarled in his mind, _She'll get tired of you. Find someone better. Someone she deserves._ He knew this. To him there was no question about it; someday she would wise up and end it with him. Walter didn't know if he was strong enough to bear it.

There she was, against the wall like always, waiting for him. On seeing his approach a smile lit the nurse's face like a beacon and his pulse quickened in response. There were dark rings under her eyes, he noticed, and her shoulders slumped a little. He took his usual place beside her. "Look tired."

"Yeah," she chuckled, "Somebody kept me up past my bedtime." Her smile took on a sensual quality that made the heat rise on the redhead's face. Chloe adored that about him; no matter how stolid he was, she could still make him blush like an adolescent. "By the way, you forgot something up in my apartment."

Walter gave nothing away in his expression. "Oh?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded. "You just might have to stop by and pick it up later."

Walter shuffled his feet awkwardly. He had no experience with this kind of thing; this flirtation. He wondered how something could be so embarrassing and yet so enjoyable. "Have to check my schedule," he mumbled. He felt a small rush as Chloe laughed in response.

"Guess I'll have to keep the window unlocked, then." Her hand brushed against his thigh, ever so lightly. Walter felt it like an electric shock. He watched as she sauntered off back to work, heart thudding in anticipation and dread.

_It won't last._

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Chloe spent the rest of the day in a heightened state of arousal. The closer it came to quitting time, the more fidgety she became. Rachel and Maria exchanged sly looks and smirks several times over the next few hours. _Finally_, the doors were locked for the night. Chloe all but ran up the stairs to her little apartment; took the steps two at a time. Walter was already there, seated in her easy chair with his fedora in his hands. He stood when she entered, took in her flushed complexion and heavy breathing and felt his body respond. He half expected Chloe to rush into his arms, but instead she approached him slowly, eyes agleam.

"Hey," she breathed, close enough for him to feel it. She leaned towards him for a kiss, was startled when he leaned away.

"I smell bad," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. He held his fedora in both hands like a shield. All the awkwardness that had been absent the night before now made itself painfully known.

Chloe smiled in understanding, placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I don't exactly smell like a basket of roses, either." She took his hat, set it on the table, took both of his hands in hers. "C'mon," she tugged, "let's go take a shower."

Walter followed, unresisting. In the confines of the bathroom he watched as she undressed. She loosened her ponytail, shook out her long curls so they draped over her shoulders. She pulled off her scrubs top, unsnapped her bra and tossed it aside. Half naked, she looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. "Can't shower in your clothes."

_Oh. _Face reddening, Walter fumbled his way out of his own clothing while Chloe removed her pants, socks, underwear. He felt terribly self-conscious; a short, skinny man with pasty skin and gaunt features. Didn't help that part of him responded so clearly to the woman's nudity. He covered himself with his hands and averted his eyes. What on earth did she see in him?

Chloe turned the water on, tested the temperature with her wrist. She turned to see Walter, eyes down and shoulders hunched, as if trying to hide in his own shadow. She reached out a hand to cup his chin, lifted his head. "Hey," she murmured, "Look at me."

His eyes met hers; beautiful blue. "I don't want you to feel like you _have _to be with me," Chloe said quietly, "If you have any doubts about us, just go ahead and say so. I won't be upset." A lie. He meant more to her than she'd realized before. She just wasn't sure how to say so; not without knowing if he reciprocated her feelings.

Walter shook his head. "I'm not…I just…" Damn it! He couldn't think straight with her standing there naked, staring at him with that caring look. He squeezed his eyes shut in hopes of clearing his head. "I've never…_been_ with…"

Comprehension dawned. "Was I your first?" she asked. It hadn't occurred to her. It all happened so fast the night before. After such a long time alone, she had simply overlooked his inexperience and thought whatever clumsiness occurred was all her own.

Walter nodded. Fear and shame and need warred with his habitual mask-like façade. He forced his eyes to open, to look at her. There was none of the pity or mockery he had feared, only a small sympathetic smile. Chloe leaned forward, kissed him lightly. He leaned into the kiss, deepened it, felt the tension melt from him even as another part of him grew even more alert. Chloe gently pushed his hands aside and grasped his hardened member. Walter gasped at the contact, breaking the kiss. Chloe grinned, stepped into the shower still gripping him. Walter followed her into the narrow stall. Warm water caressed his back, flowed over his shoulders and down his chest. Chloe released him to pull the shower curtain closed. He stared at her. The previous night had been too hurried for him to really _look_ at her. His eyes took in her long neck, the delicate collar bone and round shoulders, down to her not overly large breasts with their dark nipples now hardened in arousal. Lower still, to the narrowed waist and slightly pooched stomach, the flared curves of her hips, slender thighs. To that triangle of curls, graying like the hair on her head.

Chloe shifted under his scrutiny. His eyes quickly returned to her face, startled and embarrassed. Chloe laughed nervously. "Sorry, I'm not used to being ogled like that. Been a while."

_She's _uncomfortable? The thought astonished him. Chloe was always so confident, so self-assured. Walter cupped the side of her face with his hand, stared deep into her hazel eyes. "You're beautiful." He swallowed, uneasy with handing out compliments, even though he meant it. Chloe kissed him, lips smiling against his. Their arms encircled each other, pulled their bodies close. Awkwardness melted away, replaced with ardor. Legs weakened and lowered them to the shower floor. They sat face to face. Chloe straddled Walter's thighs, her legs wrapped around his waist. Walter lifted her, then gently lowered her onto his erection, groaning as her warmth enveloped him. As she moved against him he kissed his way down her neck, her chest, took a hardened nipple into his mouth which earned him a moan in response. He swirled his tongue around the peaked flesh, nibbled gently with his teeth.

"Oh, god!" Chloe gasped, "You sure you've never done this before?"

Walter released her nipple with a smile. "Fast learner." He turned his attention to her other breast. Chloe bit her lip; her fingers tangled in his red hair, wet from the shower still spilling over them. She felt it build in her, turning her insides to liquid. She whimpered. "W-Walter, I'm…"

Walter raised his head to meet her eyes. God, he could feel it; her coming around him. Felt his own climax approach. And then, at the last second, Chloe got off of him and his seed shot onto the floor. Walter stared at the mess in growing alarm. They hadn't used a condom. He could have gotten her pregnant! Chloe hugged him, made him turn his face to her. "It's okay. Heat of the moment and all that," she grinned, "No harm done." She helped him to his feet, grabbed the soap and started washing them. After a while, Walter joined in, spreading the lather over her with slow movements. His hands relished the feel of her soft skin, even as the doubts and fears crept into his mind once again.

Later, naked and spooning in her narrow bed, Walter clung to Chloe as if afraid she might vanish at any moment. Long after she drifted off he lay awake with a furrowed brow and hated how much he needed her. The certainty of their relationship's ending overshadowed his joy, while deep within his mind Rorschach grinned maliciously at the prospect of Walter's undoing. _The longer this goes on, the worse it will be when it's over._ Walter shivered and hugged her closer. He wished he had the strength to end it quickly rather than prolong his torture; wished it would go on forever.

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_The first day of October 1985 dawned._


	10. Interludes & Foreboding

**A/N:** I realized something as I read over the latest reviews; I'm in the triple digits! Over 100 reviews, where most other stories I've glanced at only have a handful, fifty at the most. And not one of those reviews I've gotten has been negative. Good gravy! Now the pressure's on. I gotta be extra attentive to what I write, because I'm not about to let this end with a whimper.

One of the reviewers (sorry, I forgot your name!) said they'd like a clearer description of Chloe. I'm not terribly good at that, but I'll give it a shot. To my mind Chloe's a combination of Gina Torres and Lena Olin, if that makes sense. It's the best I could come up with. How you all interpret that is strictly up to your imaginations. :-D

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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_Rorschach's Journal: October 5, 1985, 11:58P.M._

_Found two inebriated boys torturing dog. Thought it was another person, from the screams. They'd set the animal on fire. Gave boys a few bruises to remember me by. Put dog out of its misery. Evil claiming younger lives every day. Soon muggers and rapists won't even be old enough to shave. Innocents becoming endangered species, soon to be extinct. Will I be strong enough to fight entire city?_

Rorschach tucked the leather-bound journal into his coat, pocketed the pencil stub. He climbed down from the rooftop of the crumbling tenement to the street below, strolled down the poorly lit avenue with his gloved hands tucked in his overcoat pockets. Prostitutes arranged themselves to either side of him, offering their wares with sultry looks and suggestive poses. Rorschach ignored them all. Fewer drug pushers, he noticed. What happened to Ogre had gotten around, frightened some of the other drug manufacturers away. There would be more, of course; there always was. But for now, at least, the streets were a little cleaner. It gratified the vigilante to see some tangible results from his efforts. Gave him some meager hope that it wasn't all in vain.

Was this how Chloe felt, he wondered, those rare times when someone's life actually improved because of her healing touch? Were they enough to balance out the hopeless ones; the winos who drank until their skins turned yellow from jaundice, or the prostitutes dying slowly from innumerable diseases? Two nights ago, he recalled, she had wept when the test results for a six-year-old had come back from the lab, diagnosing him with gonorrhea. She had called Child Services, of course, but the damage to that child's innocence was already done. The next night Rorschach had tracked down the child's parents and thrown them off the roof of their tenement. The police had called it a double suicide, the fools. Tonight, he was after a man who habitually beat his wife. Chloe had managed to convince the woman to seek help at a women's shelter, mostly due to the fact that the wife was pregnant. Now Rorschach would make certain the husband kept away from her, permanently. He approached the apartment building, flexing his gloved hands in anticipation.

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The next day he went to see Chloe at her favorite spot at the wall and found her talking to another man; tall, gorgeously handsome. He looked like a model in a shampoo commercial. He said something that made Chloe laugh, and Walter felt the hard stab of jealousy. Chloe noticed him and motioned him closer. "Walter! I want you to meet a friend of mine." She placed a hand on the man's arm, far too friendly for Walter's liking. "This is Matthew Parson, one of our volunteer doctors," she beamed, "Matt, this is Walter."

"Hey, nice to meet you." The man offered his hand. Walter ignored it, merely glowered with eyes like spears of ice. The doctor's smile faltered slightly. He lowered his hand. "Well, gotta be getting back," he said awkwardly. With a final nod to Chloe, he walked back to the clinic.

Chloe turned to the redhead, frowning. "You know, that was pretty rude even for you."

Walter settled his back against the wall. "Don't like him."

"You just met him! What's not to like?"

"Pretty boy," he grumbled under his breath. Chloe's hearing, however, was excellent.

"Pretty b--" she stopped, eyes widening as a new suspicion dawned. "Are you jealous?"

Walter watched the passersby with disinterest. "Don't be stupid," he growled, then winced internally at the petulance in his voice.

_He _is_ jealous._ A gradual smile curved her mouth. She moved to stand in front of him, caught his eye. "Hey," she touched his cheek with the back of her hand, light and gentle, "You don't have anything to be jealous about. He's just a friend." She could see the doubt remain in his gaze. "Would it make you feel any better if I told you Matt's gay?"

Surprise, then another, darker emotion flickered over his expression. "He's _homosexual?_" He said the word with the same inflection others would say "leper." It rubbed Chloe the wrong way. "Yeah," she retorted sharply, "So's his boyfriend."

"Puts his hands on other men, on children--"

"For god's sake, Walter!" Chloe threw up her hands in exasperation, "Matt is not a pedophile, and he's not a pervert. He's in a stable, monogamous relationship--"

"With another man."

"Fine. Why don't I give you his address so you can hurl a brick through his window?"

Walter grimaced; it was subtle, but Chloe had gotten good at reading him. Her expression softened. "Why don't we change the subject?"

"'Kay," he sighed. But at that moment an all to familiar car pulled up to the curb. Chloe groaned, "What now?"

Detective Steven Fine exited his vehicle and approached the nurse. He took no notice of the street person with the crazy sign. Several patients on their way to the clinic's entrance gave him a wide berth; law enforcement wasn't popular in this neighborhood. "Mrs. Whitfield."

"Let me guess," Chloe sighed, "You wanna ask me some questions."

The detective nodded. "Do you know a Raymond Stein?"

Oh, god. Chloe schooled her features into a (hopefully) impassive mask. "His wife's a regular here."

"Any idea where she is now?"

"She left him. That's all I can really say."

Steven Fine nodded. "Mrs. Whitfield, we found Raymond Stein's body at the bottom of the stairs in his apartment building."

"He fell?" she asked, hopeful.

The detective shook his head. "The amount of damage sustained suggests he was thrown down the stairs. Repeatedly."

"Poor bastard," Chloe said with utter lack of sincerity.

"Yeah, crying shame," Fine agreed.

"What does it have to do with me?"

"Mrs. Whitfield, there seems to be a disturbing trend among some of the patients who frequent this clinic," the detective stared at her with piercing eyes, missing little, "Lately quite a few of them have wound up murdered."

"It's a rough neighborhood," Chloe shrugged, "And I already told you, everybody uses this place sooner or later. It's a poor area, and we're a _free_ clinic. Frankly, detective, I think your grasping at straws."

"That may be," Fine conceded, "But I've learned to trust my gut over the years, and my gut tells me those deaths and this clinic aren't just coincidence."

She'd had enough of this. "Well, until your gut gets a warrant, I'm going to have to ask you not to come back here." Her gaze rivaled his own in unsettling intensity. "Your presence makes my patients nervous and they have enough stress in their lives."

Detective Fine managed to hide his frustration, barely. Damn, she wasn't going to give him a thing. He _knew_ she knew something, but she was just too smart or clever to let anything slip. "Very well, Mrs. Whitfield," he sighed, nodded politely, and returned to his vehicle. She was right; he had no tangible evidence, just intuition. Unfortunately, intuition wouldn't stand up in a court of law. He started the engine to his car and drove off in search of easier prey.

Chloe rounded on Walter only to discover he had quietly slipped away during her questioning. Her hands bunched into fists and her teeth ground together. She stormed back into the clinic, livid. The anger didn't fade as the long hours passed. After closing up, she stomped up the stairs to her apartment, slammed the door shut behind her. Walter was already there, seated on her bed, hair slightly damp and face scrubbed clean from using her shower. Chloe ripped the hair scrunchie from her ponytail and flung it at him. "Goddammit, Walter! Are you _trying_ to get caught? Are you _trying_ to ruin things for the clinic? If the cops can find the connection to this place, how long do you thing it'll take before the patients put it together? They'll be too scared to come here when they need us!" she shouted.

Walter stared at her with his cold Kovacs face. "If innocent, they have nothing to fear."

"Oh, come off it, Walter!" Chloe scoffed, "Everybody's guilty of something, especially in this area. And even if they are innocent, they'll still be too scared to get help at the clinic because everybody thinks Rorschach's a fucking _lunatic!_"

Walter had never seen her so angry; never heard her use such strong language. He felt the righteous fury of Rorschach rising in response. "Evil cannot go unpunished," he rasped.

"You have a whole city to take your issues out on," Chloe snapped, "You can damn well keep away from my clinic."

"Your clinic," he scoffed, stood to face her eye to eye, "A haven for whores and thieves and junkies, run by liberals and sexual deviants. You think you're making things better with your band-aids and pats on the back?"

"You're right," she said coldly, "Brutality is _so _much more effective."

Walter snarled and headed for the fire escape window. He didn't need this shit. But Chloe darted into his path, blocked his escape. The anger had abruptly left her face, replaced with something far more frightening to the vigilante. Her head tilted as she regarded him thoughtfully. "Not like you to run away from a fight."

He could have shoved her aside, could have knocked her down with his hard fists and harder words. Part of him wanted to hurt her. Instead, he turned and sat on the bed once again. Chloe moved to sit beside him. He kept his eyes forward, not looking at her.

"Sometimes I think you want to drive me away," she said quietly. She leaned, planted a soft kiss on his rough cheek. Walter shivered.

"It won't work, you know," she whispered in his ear, kissed it teasingly, "I love you too much."

The words bludgeoned him. Walter turned on her, grabbed her shoulders, held the surprised woman at arm's length. "No you don't," he said, voice rough with something other than Rorschach's harsh rasp, "You just think you do because you're lonely. You can't…" He struggled with the words. "I don't deserve you."

Chloe stared at him with sad eyes, cupped his face in her hands. "Baby, it's _emotion_," she said with gentle intensity, "Deserving doesn't have anything to do with it. There's no controlling or rationalizing it. It just is." She kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, soft and deep. "I love you," she whispered.

Walter opened his mouth, but the words could not get through the painful tightness in his throat. Chloe smiled. "It's okay. You don't have to say it." She kissed him again, more passionately than before, and they fell onto the bed, hands clutching and roving over each other. And as they made love, Walter wished he had the strength to let her go, but his selfishness held on too tightly.

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_Rorschach's Journal: October 8, 1985, 2:30A.M._

_Found a woman trading her daughter's innocence for heroin. Girl no more than ten years old. Vacant eyes. High as a kite. No reaction as I dealt with her mother. Left her in front of hospital. Can only hope she shakes the habit before she grows up. City doesn't need another strung-out whore. Part of me thinks I should have snapped her little neck rather than leave her at the mercy of so-called authorities. Anything would be better than this._

He gazed from his concealing alley at the grimy street. For a city which never sleeps, there was depressingly little activity this night. A stray cat nosed through the refuse from an overturned garbage can, its fur coat matted and filthy, ears ragged from past battles. It seemed to sense the vigilante's gaze and looked up, eyes flashing in the dim streetlight. The two hunters took each other's measure, then the cat returned to its feeding and Rorschach returned to his writing.

_The city is rotting from the inside like an infected tooth. Decay is spreading, but they refuse to see, and those who do see are powerless to stop it. The rot has set too long, unchecked. Watchmen had tried, at least, but we were too few, and now I'm the only one remaining. I'm tired._

He thought about Chloe, asleep in her bed. In her way, she too fought the unstoppable tide of corruption and violence. It only seemed to be getting worse; old women woke in their shithouse apartments covered in rat bites, schizophrenics starved to death on the streets as they babbled to the voices in their heads, mewling children born to girls little more than children themselves, and all the while the pigs watched and smirked as the vermin slowly exterminated themselves. It wore at the soul. Somehow, Chloe kept going.

He didn't write any of this. Chloe was part of Walter's world, not Rorschach's. She had no place in his journal.

Rorschach put his journal away, stepped out into the night. He followed the familiar route to the clinic's darkened building, climbed the fire escape to the window. He smirked at how easily he gained access to her home, even as he worried over it. She really should take precautions, he thought. Lord knew what sort of freak might get in. Rorschach closed the window behind him, removed his hat and face. Now he was Walter. He crept through the darkened room, down the narrow hall leading to the bathroom. Showered quickly, then tiptoed back to where the bed sat against the wall, covers rumpled over the familiar slumbering form. Walter crawled in beside her, put his arm around her. Her warmth against his body relaxed him; the tensions of the night eased from his spare frame. His eyelids started to grow heavy.

Chloe inhaled deeply, stretched, felt the familiar body pressed against hers. She rolled carefully on the narrow mattress until she faced him. Dim light filtered through the window curtains and shone on her eyes, off her teeth as she smiled. "Hey."

"Hey." He felt her hands wander over him, felt a stirring in response. His own hands crept under her T-shirt, cupped her warm breasts, felt her nipples harden against his palms. Lips found each other in the dark, tongues caressing and probing. Walter's boxers slid off his hips, down his legs. Chloe's shirt slipped over her head, tossed carelessly aside. She fumbled with the drawer on the nightstand, pulled out a condom, put it on him, then straddled him. She lowered herself onto his straining member with a sigh, put her hands over his bare chest and started riding him. Their movements were slow, languid, both only half awake. It gave their lovemaking a surreal quality. Even their orgasms seemed slow to complete, stretched out over several moments in one long, exquisite crash.

Afterwards, the woman asleep in his arms, Walter wondered how, no matter how grim Rorschach viewed the world, Chloe always managed to make it seem bearable. Then he wondered if he did the same for her.

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"Now remember, Hamish," Chloe said sternly, "You gotta eat something once in a while. Don't just keep popping iron pills every time you feel peckish."

The old man squinted through his flyspecked glasses at her. "What?"

Chloe leaned forward. "_Food, Hamish!_" she bellowed, "_Eat something!_"

"Alright, alright! Don't hafta yell." The old man rose from the exam bed and hobbled for the exit, grumbling over the state of things when nobody respected their elders.

The phone rang. "I got it!" Rachel hurried to snatch the receiver from its cradle.

"Next!" Chloe called out. A huge, neckless man covered in tattoos slunk towards her. One of his beefy hands held a bloodsoaked hanky to his nose. "It won' stob bleeting," he twanged.

"Well, that's what happens when you shove things where they ought not to be," the nurse answered testily. "What is it this time, Leroy? Coke? Or did somebody dare you to shove another toy car up there?"

What she could see of Leroy's face looked ashamed. "Somebuddy paid mbe ten bucks t' tringk a bottle o' tequila tru mby doze."

"The whole bottle?" Chloe wasn't sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.

"'Cep de worm."

"Naturally, one must have standards." She rolled her eyes, but couldn't hold back a smile. Poor, gullible Leroy. He'd put so many foreign objects up his nasal passages it was a wonder he could still smell anything. It was to the point that he only had to stand up fast to get a nosebleed. "Have a seat and I'll get the coagulant."

"Chloe," Rachel shouted, holding up the phone, "Call for you."

Puzzled, Chloe took the receiver, asked Rachel to take care of Leroy. She put the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

When Walter didn't see Chloe at the wall, a small stab of fear ran through him. He hurried around the side of the building, peered up at the second floor window. Was there movement? He hid his sign behind a dumpster, climbed the rickety fire escape. The window slid open before he reached it, a harried Chloe peered outside. She waved him over. "Get in."

Inside he saw a suitcase lying open on the bed, half filled with hastily piled clothing. The fear returned, like ice in his veins. "What's happening?"

Chloe yanked a mess of shirts from her dresser, added them to the pile in the suitcase. "It's Elsie. Did I tell you about her?"

Walter nodded. Elsie Mayweather, Chloe's aunt and sole surviving relative. She owned a little house in an equally little town called Jubilation. As a child, Chloe spent her summers there. She said those were the happiest times for her growing up.

"I got a call from Lila Danvers, her doctor," she crammed a dozen pairs of underwear into the general mess, "Elsie had a stroke. I'm…I'm going over to take care of her for a while. I don't know how long I'll be gone." Chloe stopped, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as she struggled for control.

Walter, feeling helpless and overwhelmed, stepped close to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. Chloe turned, hugged him tightly. Walter put his arms around her, awkward. He had no experience in comforting a distraught woman.

"Will you come with me?" she whispered.

Walter froze. "What?"

Chloe pulled back far enough to look him in the eye, her expression sad and needy. "Will you come with me?"

Go with her? Leave New York? Walter had never been out of the city, not once. What would happen if he went? Would he be able to leave Rorschach behind? Did he even want to?

_Leave crime unchecked. Foul deeds unpunished. Run away like all the others, like Dreiberg and Veidt._ Rorschach's mental voice was laced with contempt. Walter hesitated. "Chloe, I…"

"It's okay," she shook her head, eyes heavy with disappointment and sorrow. "It's fine. I understand." And the hell of it was, she _did._

Walter brushed a lock of hair from her face, placed a hand against her cheek. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she repeated without much conviction. "Out there in the sticks, no violent criminals to fight, you'd probably go stir crazy." She chuckled sadly.

Walter helped her pack, then carried her overloaded suitcase as they walked to the bus depot together. There was a bus line that went all the way to Jubilation; the kind where half the stops were nothing but a sign next to a fenced pasture in the middle of nowhere. Walter loaded the case in the bus's luggage compartment for her. They faced each other for one long, uncomfortable moment, then Chloe put her arms around his waist.

"I'll be back in time for Halloween," she promised, her smile hopeful, "We can make a day of it. Dress up like sane people."

A smile tugged at the corners of Walter's mouth. "How do sane people dress?"

"Damned if I know." She kissed him, hungrily, desperately, as if afraid he might vanish once she'd gone. "I'll miss you."

Walter nodded. He didn't trust his voice to speak at that moment. As he watched her climb aboard and the bus roared out of the depot, a terrible sense of foreboding came over him. He feared he might never see her again.


	11. Jubilation

**A/N:** Here is where the graphic novel/movie and my story overlap. It might add a new perspective to Rorschach's actions, especially towards the end. Or not. What do I know? ;-)

For the parts focusing on Rorschach I've decided to use excerpts from the journal entries in the novel, as well as referencing events. I will be sticking mostly to the GN-verse, but there are at least two moments in the movie I liked better: the first being Rorschach's confrontation with the child killer (how can a cleaver to the skull _not_ top a mere torching?), and the second being Veidt's use of the energy bombs (that fake Squid Monster thingy from Dimension X or whatever was just plain silly).

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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Craig Danvers, Dr. Lila Danvers's son, was waiting for her at the bus depot. Chloe smiled tiredly at him; it had been a days-long, dull trip in which she had nothing but her worries for company. She and Craig embraced briefly, then she asked the question she feared to have answered. "How is she?"

Craig gave her a reassuring smile. "Better than we hoped. Ma doesn't think there's any serious permanent damage. Her coordination's a little wonky, but that's about it."

Chloe heaved a sigh of relief. "She still in the hospital?"

"Yeah," Craig smirked, "and complaining every minute. But you know Ma; she'd keep a kid with a sprained ankle overnight for observation." He helped her load her suitcase in the trunk of his car, then drove them the rest of the way to town. Chloe smiled as the sign came into view: JUBILATION WELCOMES YOU.

Jubilation was the type of town that measured its population in the hundreds; a cluster of houses, a church, and a diner/general store. The town's children were bused to a neighboring town for schooling. It was the type of place that only got visitors when someone got lost on the back roads. That was how Chloe had met Byron.

Craig drove her straight to the hospital, knowing she would want to see her aunt before settling in at the house. Jubilation's "hospital" was actually Lila Danvers's home, its once massive foyer and parlor converted into a waiting room and exam room, its guest rooms fitted with hospital beds and life monitoring equipment. Elsie lay in the largest of these converted rooms, sulking at the involuntary bed rest. The moment she saw her niece step through the door she turned on the silver haired woman standing beside her.

"Damn it, Lila, I told you not to call her until I was back in my own house!"

"Nice to see you, too, Els," Chloe said, smiling in relief at her aunt's typical orneriness. She went to the bed and kissed the older woman on the cheek. "Y'know, if you wanted me to visit, you could have just called rather than scare me to death with all this stroke business."

Elsie snorted. "As if a simple invitation could ever drag you away from that clinic of yours." Elsie Mayweather was lighter-skinned than her niece, with prominent freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, and her silver-gray curls were cut short so they bounced loosely around her head. She had lived alone ever since her husband was lost at sea during the second world war, in the house that had been in the family since Jubilation was founded. A cute little place, painted sky blue with white trim, it even had a white picket fence. Elsie once said when her time came she would leave the house to Chloe, to "keep it in the family."

Chloe pulled up a chair next to Elsie's bed and sat down; Lila and Craig stepped out to give them some privacy. "How're you feeling, Els?"

"Fine. Bit clumsy's all," the older woman shrugged. "You know what the oddest part about this stroke is? I can't stand the taste of peaches anymore. Imagine that! I'll never be able to eat Deb Blascoe's peach cobbler anymore."

Chloe frowned. "I thought you hated Deb's cobbler."

"I _do_, but now she'll just blame it on my stroke-addled taste buds rather than the fact that she's a lousy cook!" The two women shared a laugh over that. Elsie stroked her niece's hair. "Child, you're getting as gray as a mule."

"Well, I'm already as stubborn as one."

"Ain't that the truth. Runs in the family." Elsie grinned. "So…you got a fella back in the city?"

Chloe couldn't quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Well, there _is _someone…"

"Oh?" Elsie leaned towards her in wide-eyed eagerness.

"His name's Walter. He just sort of stumbled in one day." _Through my window, bleeding from a knife wound._

"What's he like?" Elsie prompted.

"Quiet, driven…"

The older woman frowned. "He's not a lawyer, is he?"

"God no!" Chloe laughed, "Nothing like that."

"Thank goodness."

Chloe's smile took a melancholy edge. "He's nothing like Byron."

Elsie patted her arm. "Good. It wouldn't be fair to either of you if he was. Byron was one of a kind. He wouldn't want you clinging to his memory through someone else." She smiled tenderly. "Does this Walter make you happy?"

"Yeah," Chloe nodded, "He does."

"Then I'm sure whenever I meet him I'll love him, too. He isn't here, is he?"

"No. He…" Chloe hesitated, "He has a lot of work to do. Couldn't get away."

Elsie smirked. "Sounds like someone else I know." Her niece feigned innocence.

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After some reasoned debate and not a little griping on the patient's part, Lila finally agreed to release Elsie into Chloe's care. Craig drove them back to the house, carried Chloe's suitcase for her while she steadied her aunt up the porch steps. Sprawled on the porch was the ugliest dog Chloe had ever seen, all wrinkly nose and blotchy fur lying in a boneless heap. The animal didn't so much as lift an eyelid to acknowledge them.

"What's this one called?" Chloe asked. Her aunt always named her dogs after U.S. Presidents.

Elsie nodded at the comatose animal. "Nixon. Laziest animal on the face of God's green earth. Probably wouldn't move if his tail was on fire."

Chloe laughed. Didn't say much for the older woman's opinion of the current President. They said their goodbyes to Craig, then she and Elsie wound up sitting on the porch glider rather than going inside. It was a beautiful day, not too chilly. They sat side by side in silence and watched the trees wave their multicolored leaves in the breeze. Chloe noticed a pair of binoculars on the end table, picked them up. "When did you take up bird watching?"

"I didn't," Elsie pointed in the direction of the Henderson place, some distance away, "Sometimes young Michael Henderson does his yard work without a shirt."

Chloe burst into laughter. "You dirty old woman!"

"I may be old, but I ain't dead." She snatched her binoculars from the giggling woman, brought them to her eyes. "Drat. He's got a sweater on." This only made her niece laugh harder. Elsie set the binoculars on her lap and smiled at the younger woman. "You don't have to stick around, you know. I'm fine, and knowing Lila she'll be checking up on me every hour just to make sure I don't have another stroke." She snorted.

"I want to be here," Chloe said quietly, "I've missed you." She couldn't hide the guilt she felt; she should have visited more, or at least phoned once in a while. She should know better than to take the people she loved for granted.

Elsie bumped her lightly with her shoulder. "I've missed you, too. You're always welcome here, you know that. This place is as much your home as mine. Stay if it pleases you, but don't let it be out of some sense of familial obligation, alright?"

"Don't worry. It's purely for selfish reasons." Chloe grinned.

"Alright then. Just until I can walk without wobbling all over the damn place, then you should get back to that fella of yours. Maybe drag him down here to meet the eccentric old bag."

Chloe rolled her eyes. "Oh, Elsie! You're not eccentric. You have to be rich first."

The two women laughed and chatted into the evening, while the sunset painted the sky with colors to rival the autumn trees.

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Chloe's absence left a void. He had been lonely most of his life; it had made him self reliant, better able to wander the nighttime streets for hours on end without distraction. He had been lonely, but until Chloe left he had never _felt_ it. He felt it now, and it brought an extra bitterness to him.

_Rorschach's Journal. October 12th__, 1985._

…_This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"…and I'll look down and whisper "No."_

Walter withdrew as the pain of missing Chloe grew. It was Kovacs who walked in the daylight, brandishing his sign; Rorschach who patrolled the nighttime in search of wrongs to avenge. He hadn't been near the free clinic since the day he watched her leave on that bus. She said she'd be back, but…what if she changed her mind? Those times she talked of her childhood, visiting Jubilation, had filled her with such joy in remembering. What if being there brought those memories flooding back, overwhelmed all other thoughts or considerations? What if she met someone there from her youth? Some handsome, good hearted man who once played hide-and-seek with her all those years ago and knew all her delightful quirks, her likes and dislikes? A shared history? No, he would not dwell on such distractions. Back to sleep, Walter. Back to that dim corner of the subconscious where you hid all those years from the memory of Blaire Roche. Nothing you can do about Chloe, one way or the other. Let Rorschach focus on what _could_ be done.

Such as this murder. Blood on the sidewalk, washed away now. Badge in the gutter, canary yellow smile with a splash of crimson across one eye. Brought to mind a specific man. Inside the apartment wrapped in yellow police tape, the answer was quickly found. The Comedian was dead. Murdered. What sort of person could kill one of the few remaining masked heroes left? Someone new? Someone out to eliminate the competition, or remove a threat? Why stop with the Comedian? Best to assume they wouldn't, he decided. Best to warn others, whatever good it would do.

Rorschach felt an unfamiliar tremor deep in his gut; an icy sliver of dread. This was only the beginning.

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People were often under the mistaken impression that because he spent the bulk of his time sprawled on the porch, Nixon was a stupid dog. Nothing could be further from the truth; he was an exceedingly intelligent canine who knew the key to longevity was to avoid strenuous activity at all costs. It was a philosophy that had served him well in his five and a half years on this earth, and he didn't see any point in changing it. Nixon had managed to whittle down his responsibilities as the household dog to but a single task: if his keen ears picked up the sound of a vehicle's approach, he would announce the imminent arrival with a well timed bark. So, when he heard the familiar muted roar of Henry's pickup in the distance, he dutifully lifted his massive, blocky head and let forth a casual _whuff_. That accomplished, he lowered his head to its previous position atop his broad paws, satisfied in a job well done.

Chloe stepped out onto the porch, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She had managed to convince Elsie to sit and watch TV while she did the dishes; trying to get Elsie to let anyone do anything for her was a chore in itself. She grinned at the tall figure that unfolded itself from the pickup's cab. "Hank!"

"Chlo!" Henry Dobbins bounded up the porch steps in two long strides, lifted the laughingly startled woman off her feet in a bear hug. "Heard you were back. How long're you staying?"

"Not too long," Chloe answered as the tall man set her back on her feet, "Two, three weeks. Just until Elsie's better." She beamed up at her friend, with whom she'd spent countless summers playing with and who, at the age of twelve, was the first boy she'd ever kissed. Six-four, long and lean, with golden hued skin and almond eyes courtesy of his Japanese mother, and the basso voice and tightly curled hair of his father. When he wasn't helping his father at the general store he fulfilled his duties as Jubilation's sheriff. "You look great."

"So do you," he smiled, "City's been good to you?"

"Well as can be expected. How's Corrine?"

Henry's smile faded somewhat. "Didn't work out. We got divorced two years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The news saddened her; they had seemed so happy.

Henry shrugged. "Wasn't meant to be."

"Wanna come inside? I can fix some tea and we can reminisce about the good ol' days."

"Sure." He followed her into the house.

Elsie turned her head to see who followed Chloe in and beamed. "Hey there, Henry. Come to visit the invalid?"

"'Fraid not, Els. I'm here to call on your fair niece."

"Well, you can call, but I can't guarantee she'll answer," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "Chloe's got a fella back in the city."

"Really?" Was that a flicker of jealousy Chloe saw? _Don't be silly. He's practically family!_ Of course, one didn't kiss family the way she'd kissed him all those years ago. Chloe shook her head. What was she thinking? She was with Walter; maybe not at that precise moment, but…

"Do you want tea or coffee?" she called from the kitchen, pushing the disquieting thoughts from her mind.

"Tea's fine," Henry answered, settling himself on the sofa. Chloe found the box of mint, stuffed the dried leaves into the infuser, set the water on the stove to boil. She found some cookies in a cupboard and set them on a tray. From the living room she could hear Henry and Elsie chatting. She'd forgotten how much she liked Hank's voice, how its percussions seemed to vibrate the very air around her. It was that voice that had moved her to kiss him, when she was twelve and he was almost fourteen and nervous as hell. She smiled at the memory. It had been out by that sprawling old oak they loved to climb. Henry's voice had only just changed and it still startled them every time he spoke.

"Careful, Chlo. You're gettin' too heavy for that branch," he'd boomed.

Chloe had scoffed; she'd hung by her hands from that branch thousands of times and it had held her, no problem. Dangling by her skinny arms, she'd kicked her legs contemptuously. "It's plenty strong enou--_aauuugh!_" The branch had snapped like a dry twig. Only Henry's quick feet and long reach had saved her from a nasty spill. He caught the girl with an _oof!_ and set her weak-kneed on the ground.

"Told ya," he'd rumbled with a smirk, still steadying her with his arms.

Chloe had stared up at him, both irritated and relieved. He had gotten so much taller than her the last few months. She actually had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. Her hands were on his chest; she felt the rise and fall of his breaths, the thrum of his heartbeat. Her own changing body reacted to the closeness in strange new ways, bringing a flutter to her chest and heat to her face. The two youths had stared at each other for one timeless moment, then Chloe had impulsively grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down, crashed her lips against his in a kiss filled with awkward sincerity. It ended as suddenly as it had occurred, and the two of them had gaped at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. Henry quickly released her from his arms. Chloe stumbled, regained her balance, and glared up at him. "You tell anybody about that and I'll kick your ass."

"Don't worry, I wo--"

_Wheeeeeee!_ The kettle's whine startled her from her reverie. Chloe lifted it off the stove, poured its steaming contents into the teapot. She set it on the tray, along with three cups, spoons, the sugar bowl, and the little pitcher of milk shaped like a cow. Chloe never liked that pitcher; every time she poured milk into her tea it looked like the cow was vomiting. She hefted the loaded tray and carried it into the living room, set it on the coffee table with a faint rattle.

As the three of them wiled away the afternoon talking of days past and times apart, Chloe wondered in the back of her mind if she should feel guilty for being so comfortable here that she didn't even miss New York. Not the clinic, not the patients she'd cared for. All she really missed, she realized, was Walter.

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_Rorschach's Journal. October 16__th__, 1985._

_In the cemetery, all the white crosses stood in rows, neat chalk marks on a giant scoreboard. Paid last respects quietly, without fuss. Edward Morgan Blake…buried in the rain. Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends, so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses…_

Rorschach stared down at the crimson wreath; Moloch's farewell to the man responsible for his years of imprisonment. Already the petals curled from the relentless cold, the raindrops glistened like glass beads. The vigilante bent, carefully freed one of the roses, stuck its stem through the hole in his coat's lapel. He tried to imagine how Chloe would react to such a sentimental gesture. If she were still in New York, he would have gone to see her, would have handed her that fading bloom just to get a smile from her. But she wasn't here.

Rorschach tried to shove the melancholy thoughts from him as he left the graveyard. The rain, the flowers, the lonely headstones; they stirred up emotions best ignored. They served no useful purpose, only distracted him from his duty to seek justice for the Comedian, for all the masked heroes. No point in brooding over things he could not change. Whether or not she returned, it was up to Chloe, and her alone. All he could do was cope.

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Lila Danvers asked Chloe out to lunch at Deb's, the diner half of _Blascoe's Diner & General Store_, to "catch up on old times," as she phrased it. The two women sat across from each other in a booth eating the Blue Plate Special (chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy) and drinking iced tea. The doctor was one of those rare women who seemed to get handsomer the more she aged. Her sensibly short silver-white hair gleamed like spider silk, a nest of smile lines surrounded each stormy gray eye, her weathered countenance evoked both respect and reassurance in her patients. She was the first woman doctor Jubilation had ever known, and she had proved herself more than capable over the years. There wasn't a man, woman, or child in town who hadn't been to her house from time to time to have their hurts tended to. Not one person who didn't trust her implicitly with their life.

"Elsie taking her meds?" the doctor asked.

Chloe nodded, swallowing a mouthful of food. "Yeah. She's stubborn, but she isn't stupid."

"That's good." Lila smiled. "So, how have you been getting on at the old place?"

"Good. Lot of fond memories here. Forgot how much I missed it."

"There's something I want to ask you," said the older woman, suddenly serious, "I know it's rather sudden, but how would you like to stay on in Jubilation as my nurse? Population's grown a bit over the years and I could really use an extra pair of hands from time to time."

"Uh…" Chloe found herself incoherent with surprise. "W-what about Craig? Doesn't he help you?"

"Craig's too busy teaching grade-schoolers their multiplication tables. Besides," she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "he faints dead away at the sight of blood."

Chloe couldn't help but smile at the image; big brawny Craig Danvers keeling over like a corseted damsel. But…stay in Jubilation? Leave the clinic? Her apartment? And what about Walter? Would he be willing to move out here with her? _Could_ he? "Lila, I don't--"

"You don't have to give me an answer today," the doctor smiled reassuringly. "Take your time, think it over. I won't make a fuss if you turn the job down."

Chloe nodded, relieved to be given some leeway.

The television situated high in the corner behind the diner's counter showed sober men in dark suits discussing the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. The image flashed to the familiar image of the Doomsday Clock, its hands creeping towards midnight. Chloe frowned. She hated that damn clock. All it did was stress people out even more. What was the point in stylizing something as huge and ponderous as nuclear war? It wasn't as if anybody could do anything about it one way or the other. It was all in the hands of the powers-that-be, not the common man or woman. Why not show something people _could_ control, like a Cholesterol Clock or a Budget Clock? "The Education Clock is set at half-past-idiocy." Chloe smirked.

After dessert (Elsie was right, the peach cobbler was terrible) the two women said goodbye for now and went their separate ways. Chloe strolled down the main thoroughfare, enjoying the sunshine which filtered through the sunset leaves of the autumn trees. It was always sunny here, it seemed. Not like New York with its perpetual gloom. Halloween decorations dotted the yards and houses; dancing skeletons, cardboard ghosts and black cats, jack-o-lanterns. Every year at this time Elsie opened her pumpkin patch at the back of her property to the public. Parents would bring their youngsters to choose a pumpkin for later carving. Chloe smiled at the memories of toddlers trying to lift vegetables as big as themselves, and the inevitable _ewws_ and _yucks_ as they pulled out the pumpkins' slimy innards. And anything left over in the patch, well, Elsie had a whole box full of recipes. Pies, puddings, tarts, spiced pumpkin, pumpkin sorbet. Every year Elsie swore she'd never eat another damn pumpkin as long as she lived, and every year the cycle began anew.

It suddenly occurred to Chloe that she was actually giving Lila's offer some serious thought. She could be happy here in the aptly named town of Jubilation, helping to care for the people she'd grown up with and their families. No more strung out prostitutes, no more broken down homeless people, no more abused and neglected children. This place wasn't perfect, but it was far better than what she had to look forward to in New York. In truth, there was only one real reason for her to go back to the city at all; Walter. Would he be willing to put away the mask and live out here in this peaceful little town? Was she willing to leave all this behind and return to the crime and misery of the city for him? It worried her that she just didn't know. She didn't know.

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The painted silhouettes seemed to have cropped up everywhere. Two figures, male and female, seemingly caught in the act of kissing. Rorschach didn't like them, didn't like the feelings they brought out in him. Just when he thought he'd gotten control over Walter's emotions something brought them bubbling to the surface once again. He missed her. So much. He worked himself to exhaustion to avoid dreaming of her when he slept, and even that didn't always work. He missed leaning against the wall and talking with her. Missed sneaking in through her window and climbing into bed with her, to sleep or make love, it didn't matter which. He missed _being_ with her. These constant, nagging thoughts of her distracted him, made him careless. If Rorschach had exerted better control over himself, he wouldn't have fallen for the trap so easily.

"_Rorschach! This is the police, Rorschach. We know you're in there. It's all over."_

A goddamned trap and he'd walked right into it. He didn't make it easy for them, but in the end his struggles were futile. The pigs had finally caught him.

"No!" he roared as the latex fabric was ripped away. "My face! Give it back!"

Detective Steven Fine watched with grim satisfaction as the vigilante was cuffed and dragged kicking and screaming into the patrol car. He had finally caught the bastard; finally caged his unicorn.

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There was someone in the room with her. Chloe sat up in bed, stared at the blackness in search of the intruder. "Who's there?"

"Chloe." That voice. _His_ voice! "Walter!"

The mattress dipped under his weight, his thin strong arms encircled her. She hugged him back, desperately. "God, Walter, what are you doing here?"

"I missed you."

She blinked away the tears. "I missed you, too." She searched by touch, found his lips in the darkness. A long, soulful kiss.

The door splintered. Shadowy figures rushed in, eyes aflame. They grabbed Walter who roared and struggled, but could not break away. Chloe screamed, tried to hold on to him, felt him slip away…

"Chloe! Wake up!"

She woke, gasping. The bedside lamp was on, illuminating the concerned face of her aunt. "You were having a nightmare, sweetheart."

"I…he was…" Chloe sobbed. She let Elsie embrace her, cradle her against her like a child.

"Shh, baby." The older woman rocked her gently. "It's all over. It's all past." She crooned and soothed her niece until the younger woman drifted off, then carefully tucked her in as she had when Chloe was a little girl. _My poor baby,_ she thought, _Still having bad dreams about Byron._

The next day Chloe wrote a letter, sealed and addressed it with care, and dropped it in the slot at Jubilation's little post office. She felt some relief in doing this; there was no backing out now, whatever happened.

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Locked away in his cell, Walter Kovacs experienced his own terrible dream. Earlier that day he had told the fat, complacent head-shrink about Blaire Roche. Told about the man who had kidnapped the innocent child, violated her, butchered her, fed her to the dogs like worthless scraps. Told him what Rorschach did to that man, the meat cleaver arcing into his diseased skull over and over, slaughtering the humanity within himself. But in his dream that night, it wasn't little Blaire who had died so terribly. It was Chloe. Chloe who had been murdered. Chloe, chopped into pieces. Chloe, eaten by vicious dogs. Kovacs woke in the darkened cell with a wad of pillow stuffed in his mouth, his larynx all but rupturing from the suppressed screams.

Did she know about his arrest? Was she in New York even now, trying to see him? _Stay away,_ he silently begged. Something terrible was brewing, he felt it. Something so devastating he feared it would sweep away everything in its path, including the one thing on this wretched earth Walter treasured. _Stay away, Chloe. Stay safe, far from here._

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Chloe avoided the news; didn't watch it on TV or listen to it on the radio or read about it in the papers. It was all the same anyway: the Russians, nuclear war, Dr. Manhattan's abrupt departure from the Earth (maybe he knew something they didn't). Because of this willful ignorance, she was unaware of Rorschach's incarceration until long after the fact. Henry had stopped by for another visit--something he did a lot lately--with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He'd set it on the coffee table while he and the two ladies drank coffee and chatted, and Chloe happened to glance at the page. She dropped her cup. It shattered on the hardwood floor, hot coffee spattered her jeans, unnoticed. It was right there, an update on the notorious vigilante Walter Kovacs, a.k.a. Rorschach, captured by police on October 21st. Days ago!

"Chloe!" Henry grabbed her shoulder, shocking her back to the present. "Are you okay?"

"I have to get back to New York," she said, "I have to go _now_."

"What're you talking about?" Elsie exclaimed.

"Walter's in trouble, Els. I need to see him."

Elsie looked down at the newspaper, at the article. "Walter Kovacs? _Your_ Walter is _Rorschach_?"

"Yes," she answered simply, solemnly, "I love him, Elsie."

Her aunt stared at her for a long moment, then her expression softened into a sad smile. "Go on then, baby. I understand."

The two women embraced, then Chloe turned to her stunned friend. "Henry, I need a ride to the depot."

"Hold on a second!" He waved his hands frantically. "This guy you've been seeing, you _knew_ he was a wanted criminal all this time? And you didn't tell anyone? Jesus, Chlo! _Jesus!_ Why would you do something so--"

"Be careful, Hank," she spoke with dangerous calm. "If you don't want to help me, I understand. I'll find another way to get to the bus depot."

Henry stared at her, at the certainty in her eyes. There were no doubts, no second guesses. She meant everything she said. "Alright," he sighed, "I'll give you a ride."

"Thank you."

Chloe hurriedly packed a small overnight bag, then she and Henry piled into his pickup and headed for the neighboring town of Lovettesville, where the Jubilation children went to school and the buses came and went. But when they got there, they discovered the bus to New York was held up for repairs.

"Well, don't you have a substitute?" Chloe demanded.

The man in the booth sighed impatiently. "Look, lady, this area ain't exactly a high-demand tourist area. You're just gonna have to wait a couple more days."

"Dammit!" Chloe kicked the wall in frustration, ran her fingers through her loose hair. "I can't wait," she said, pacing, "Something's going to happen, I can feel it. I have to get to him. Maybe I can hitchhike--"

"Chloe." Henry took her hand, reached into his pocket, placed the keys to his truck in her palm. Chloe looked at him in astonishment. "Hank?"

He smiled. "The old girl may be ugly, but she's reliable. She'll get you there."

"Hank, I cant--"

"Yes you can," his smile was wistful, "I may not agree with your taste in men, but you're my friend. Take the truck. Go see your man."

Eyes filling, Chloe stood on tiptoe to kiss her friend's cheek. "Thank you."

"Go on, now. I'll find a ride home." He watched as his childhood friend climbed into the pickup, adjusted the seat, started the engine, and rattled off down the highway towards the city and whatever fate awaited her there.


	12. Race to the End

A/N:** I must confess, there were one or two moments writing this that I got kinda misty. I've become so swept up in these characters' stories that I can't help but empathize with them.**

**Most of the dialog for the Rorschach scenes are taken directly from the book, as I'm sure most of you will realize. As I'd mentioned in the last chapter, I decided to use the energy bombs from the movie for Veidt's catastrophic "practical joke," but all the rest is pretty much GN-centric. I hope you all like reading my ideas on what went through Rorschach's mind as the story progressed as much as I enjoyed writing them.**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.**

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He'd been sitting idle too long in his cell, alone with nothing but his nagging fears of impending doom. It was almost a relief when the riot started, when Big Figure and his goons came for him. Killing the goons turned out to be ridiculously easy. Rorschach stepped out of his busted cell, trailed after the retreating dwarf, while all around him the prison clamored with rampaging inmates settling old grudges or just causing mayhem. He saw his quarry dart into the men's room, moved to follow.

"Rorschach!" He almost jumped at the voice. Dreiberg, clad in his old Nite Owl costume, and the Silk Spectre; here to rescue him.

"Uh, we're not interrupting anything?" Nite Owl asked, puzzled as to why his former partner didn't stop walking down the poorly lit hall.

"No," Rorschach rasped, "Excuse me. Have to visit men's room." As he stepped through the door, he heard Laurie gripe, "Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Big Figure huddled in the corner of the filthy bathroom, bug-eyed with terror. "L-listen, Rorschach! I know you're pretty pissed at me, b-but we can work something out, can't we?" the little man stammered, "I got resources, man! I got connections! Help me outta this jail and I can give you anything you want! Anything!" His cartoonish voice grew shrill the nearer the redhead came.

Rorschach paused less than a foot away from the cowering dwarf, expression contemplative. "Anything?"

"_Anything!"_

"Hurm." His hand cupped his chin in a thoughtful pose, then suddenly lashed out, gripped the little man by the front of his prison-issue shirt and lifted him to eye level, tiny legs dangling. The vigilante's voice reached a new depth of cold; arctic cold. "I want you to _die_."

Afterwards, as the toilet overflowed with bloody water, Rorschach followed the two impatient masked heroes to Dreiberg's Owlship, _Archimedes_. He watched the hellhole that was Sing-Sing shrink into the distance. He was free. Free to bring retribution on whoever was responsible for his incarceration, and perhaps avert disaster.

Far below Archie, in the well-lit neighborhoods, children dressed as ghosts and pirates invaded the streets in search of sugary gratification. All Hallows Eve. Chloe would be back by now, he realized. Back in her little apartment, perhaps working late at the clinic. If she hadn't known about his capture before, she most certainly did now. He wished at that moment that he could go to her, reassure her that he was alright. But Rorschach had a killer to find, a killer of masks. He had stumbled onto something huge and terrible when he'd started investigating the Comedian's death. Whatever it was, whoever had conspired to eliminate all the Watchmen, including the indestructible Dr. Manhattan, was sure to effect the entire city, if not the world. And only he could hope to prevent it; him and Nite Owl, for Laurie was abruptly whisked away by her former lover. Dreiberg did not take her sudden departure well. It occurred to Rorschach that Nite Owl and the young Silk Spectre had moved into new territory with their relationship. Anger and resentment flared at this realization; that his former partner should have had someone in his life when Rorschach was forced to remain separated from Chloe. As if he wasn't in enough turmoil already.

Rorschach's encounter with his landlady didn't help matters, either. He glowered at her, with her flabby, hickey-marked neck and her mismatched offspring. That she would dare to act so helpless and frightened after the lies she'd told.

"How much did they pay you to lie about me, whore?" he hissed, mask horribly expressionless.

"Oh please, don't say that. Not in front of my kids…" the woman begged, "Please. They…they don't know."

And the little ones stared at him with tear-streaked faces, clinging to their mother. Stared at him as if he was a monster. What if Chloe were here to see him like this, terrorizing a woman and her children? The anger seeped away, replaced with remorseful sorrow. _I'm sorry._ "Got what we came for," he said to the concerned Nite Owl, "Finished here now. Let's go." He wished he could forget the sounds of that sad, broken family sobbing in his wake. One more sin on his overburdened conscience.

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Chloe drove until exhaustion threatened to veer her off the highway, found somewhere to grab a few precious hours of sleep, then drove some more. A hard lump of ice weighed heavily in her stomach; a nameless fear which brought urgency to her journey, as if to beat some unknown deadline. She could see the lights of the city in the far distance; twinkling faerie lights. New York seemed so magical from a distance, its countless flaws invisible from afar. Chloe wasn't fooled. She knew the city too well.

The radio, which she kept at high volume in an attempt to hold weariness at bay, suddenly announced a riot at Sing-Sing. Several prisoners had escaped, including the notorious Rorschach, rescued by fellow Watchman Nite Owl, long thought retired with the enactment of the Keene Act. Chloe felt some relief at this. She had dreaded what might happen to Walter, locked away with the enemies of his past. But the icy burden remained. Whatever premonition her subconscious held from her had not been averted by Rorschach's escape. The urgency only seemed to grow the closer she drew to her destination. Chloe pressed down on the accelerator, pushing the speedometer another 10 mph above the speed limit. Time was running out.

The Doomsday Clock read two-to-midnight.

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They remained hidden for hours under the water; long hours with nothing to do but sleep and fret. It made Rorschach irritable. If he could only do something, _anything _to distract him from his fears!

"Hate this," he groused, "All day on riverbed. Drowned corpses more useful. You said we could proceed."

"This is no picnic for me, either," Nite Owl grumbled in return. The forced intimacy of their surroundings made for short fuses.

"Implying something?" Rorschach's sarcastic tone grated, "About coat, perhaps? Slightly musty. Apologies. Can't all be fastidious. Can't all keep hands clean." The fact that his spare coat was the same one he'd worn on the Blaire Roche case, with the same ancient bloodstains, didn't help his mood. The two former crime-fighting partners continued to gripe and lash out at each other.

"Been lazing around a long time. Maybe you've forgotten how we do things."

"_Lazing…?_" Nite Owl's expression darkened with rage. "Listen, I've _had_ it! Who the hell do you think you _are_?" He stabbed an accusatory finger at Rorschach, who was too stunned by this uncharacteristic outburst to respond. "You live off people while insulting them! Nobody complains, because they think you're a goddamned _lunatic…_"

Those words, so similar to the ones Chloe once used, weighed Rorschach with sudden guilt. Dan was right; he was snapping at the one person who'd ever considered him a friend, who'd risked his life and his freedom to get the ungrateful vigilante out of jail. Rorschach felt like an asshole.

Nite Owl, true to his nature, immediately apologized for his anger-fueled words, which only added to the guilt. Rorschach held out his hand. "Daniel…You are…a good friend. I know that," he hesitated, unaccustomed to apologizing, "I am sorry…that it is sometimes difficult."

His former partner, obviously touched by the gesture, grasped his offered hand. "Hey, forget it. It's okay, man. It's okay."

But it wasn't okay. Without his anger to distract him, the dreaded foreboding swept in with a vengeance. What if they failed? There was just the two of them against God knew what sort of adversary. Someone with enough power, influence, and connections to take out the Comedian, to set Rorschach up for imprisonment, to drive Dr. Manhattan into self-imposed exile. What chance did they have? What chance did Chloe have?

"Uh…" Nite Owl disengaged his hand from Rorschach's tightened grip, startling the vigilante from his disturbed reverie. They regarded each other in awkward silence, then Nite Owl, to their shared relief, suggested their next course of action. They would do things Rorschach's way; they would set out to question the underworld, willing or otherwise.

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Chloe had been on the road eighteen hours since her last long stop in which she'd indulged in a few hours of hastily grabbed sleep. Towards the end she nearly nodded off, which scared her enough to find a shitty little motel to stop for the night. She dragged herself into a room that smelled of stale cigarettes and flopped onto the bed, not bothering to pull back the covers; she doubted the sheets were clean enough to safely lie on, anyway. In the dark, her bleary eyes were drawn to the glowing face of the room's alarm clock. 12:00a.m. November 1st. All Souls Day.

"Happy birthday to me," she murmured, then drifted off into exhausted slumber. She had no memory of what she dreamt that night; only the lingering sense of loss which brought tears to her eyes and wrenching sobs to her throat. She couldn't get back on the road quick enough.

Time was running out.

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_Rorschach's Journal. November 1__st__, 1985._

_Final entry? Left Veidt's office just before midnight. Dreiberg convinced Veidt's behind everything, is serious about visiting Antarctica. Owlship capable, apparently, but are we? Veidt. Cannot imagine more dangerous opponent…_

…_For my own part, regret nothing. Have lived life, free from compromise and step into the shadow now without complaint._

Rorschach dropped the heavy envelope into the mailbox, climbed up the ladder back into Archie. The part of him that was Walter wished he'd had enough time to write to Chloe, to let her know how often she was in his thoughts, how desperate he was to keep her safe. To tell her that he loved her. But time was of the essence; he felt this certainty stronger than ever. Nite Owl and he turned for Antarctica, their success as terribly uncertain as their survival.

_I cannot fail. Whatever happens, I mustn't fail, even if it costs my life. So long as she's safe._

Nite Owl turned his Owlship to the south, and their long--perhaps final--journey began.

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Chloe cursed the need to stop, but the truck's converted engine was running low on power (how an electric engine could make such a din, she'd never know. Noisiness seemed a prerequisite for rusty old pickups). She found a station, plugged in the charger, went inside the convenience store to buy a sandwich and watery coffee. The cashier gave her a wary look as he rang up her purchase. She couldn't blame him. After days of little sleep, in the same rumpled clothes, her hair a tangled mess, eyes bloodshot, she probably looked like someone on the verge of a psychotic break.

Back on the road, she ate her sandwich without tasting it and sipped the horrid coffee, eyes glued to the cityscape in the distance. Had it been daytime, she might have been able to make out individual buildings from her current position. If all went well, she would be in New York before midnight.

"Almost there, baby," she whispered, "Almost there."

On the dashboard, the minute hand crept steadily onward to meet its little brother at the twelve.

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At midnight on November 2nd, 1985, Walter's world ended in a burst of blue energy that dissolved all it touched into atoms and left a smoldering crater in its passing. The horrific scenes of devastation from all over the world flickered across the wall of televisions. All gone. Buildings, people…Chloe. He'd failed. Fifteen million people around the world were dead, three million alone in New York, but only one face dominated his thoughts.

_Chloe! Oh, God, Chloe. I'm so sorry…_

Not even Jon, for all his vaunted powers, had been able to prevent it. Veidt, the mad pacifist, emerged victorious. He had duped the planet; his brave new world ensured. Already he was convincing the others to keep quiet, to play along or risk nuclear war. To compromise their integrity for peace.

Walter didn't care. The world could burn to a cinder tomorrow or transform itself into the Garden of Eden; none of it mattered. He'd failed. She was gone.

He headed for the door. Behind him, Dreiberg called out, "Rorschach, wait! We have to compromise…"

"No," Walter rasped in Rorschach's voice, "Not even in the face of Armageddon. Never compromise."

The arctic cold could not compete with the numbing despair in his heart. Beneath the Rorschach mask the tears began to flow. He walked towards the Owlship, not caring if he reached it.

"Where are you going?" came the eerie voice behind him, and suddenly he knew how to end the pain.

"Back to Owlship. Back to America. Evil must be punished," he rasped without feeling, "People must be told."

"Rorschach," Jon lifted a deadly hand, "You know I can't let you do that."

Sweet relief washed over him. He turned to face his savior. "Of course. Must protect Veidt's new utopia. One more body amongst foundations makes little difference." He removed his Rorschach mask; the polar winds froze the tears to his face. He would die as Walter Kovacs, a human being. _Please, God, let me catch a glimpse of her in your kingdom before sending me to Hell._

"Well? What are you waiting for?" his voice quavered from the weight of his sorrow, "Do it."

But Jon hesitated. _Hesitated! _Why now, of all times, should one mortal's death trouble him? "Rorschach…"

"_**DO IT!"**_

Light engulfed him, blinding blue.

_I love you, Chloe._

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**A/N: Stay tuned for the thrilling final chapter! Coming soon to a computer monitor near you!**


	13. Hopeless As This Seems

**A/N:** Well, here it is (sniffle), the last chapter. Lucky 13. I have to say it's been a genuine pleasure writing this story and getting all your feedback. Thank you all, both those who've stuck with this from the beginning and all you newcomers reading this for the first time. Your wonderful reviews have spurred me on to write a better story than I ever imagined I could create.

Of all the characters in _Watchmen_, I think the saddest character, other than Rorschach, is Dr. Manhattan. Not because of what he'd become, but because he remembered being human first. If he hadn't remembered being human, I don't think he would have suffered as he did, knowing all of time simultaneously and being powerless to change it. I decided to write a chapter prologue told by him in the first person, as I feel his perspective has something to offer here.

So read on, boys and girls! And take your time, 'cause this is all she wrote.

PS: The two song excerpts are "Faces" by Greenwheel and "Come Undone" by Duran Duran.

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor the musical talents of Greenwheel or Duran Duran.**

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_I have tried many times to explain my perception of time to others, but as linear creatures, human beings simply have no frame of reference. Nevertheless, I shall make another attempt. Imagine a simple line drawing. Looked at one way, you see a rabbit's head; looked at another, you see a duck with its bill partly open. You do not alter your stance, the position of your eyes to change this perspective; what is altered is the perception within your own mind. Both images are equally true, but it is impossible for you to see both images _simultaneously_. You can only shift between one or the other. It is simply the way your human brain is constructed. You exist in linear time; you can only move forward, only recall what happened _before_, never _after_. To you the future is a blank slate, waiting to be written upon. You make a choice, never fully knowing what the consequences will be until they happen. You can only guess and use your own judgment, draw upon past experiences and hope for the best. This is known as "free will."_

_The accident has transformed me into a nonlinear entity; to me the future is as clear, as immutable, as the past and the present. All time is the same to me. Where for you the future is a blank slate, so for myself it is carved in stone; where you can only guess at events yet to happen, I already _know_. Free will is lost to me._

_Both states of being, linear and nonlinear, are equally true. Yet both are mutually exclusive. I can no more alter future events anymore than you can reach into your past and change decisions already made. Your ignorance of what will be is what gives you the freedom to choose._

_I am in Antarctica. I stand naked upon the snow, yet experience no sensation of cold, no discomfort. I face a former ally, my hand extended. I am about to kill him._

"Must protect Veidt's new utopia. One more body amongst foundations makes little difference." _He removes his mask, gazes at me face to face, no barriers between us. I can see that he is crying. _"Well? What are you waiting for?" _His voice quavers, chin trembles with voiceless sobs. _"Do it."

_But do I kill him? I assume it is so, but Veidt's tachyon smoke screen still obscures my vision. The future is a haze. I do not know what is to happen. I am linear. "Rorschach…"_

_And if I do not _know_, then I am free to _choose_._

"**DO IT!"**

_I choose._

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_Broken down, this place seems to have no face_

_There's no one moving forward now _

_They're just drowning in it all_

_Walking around in circles with a never changing view_

_As hopeless as this seems_

_There's a reason for everything…_

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Walter fell onto a hard, uneven surface and opened his eyes. The air stank of burnt ozone and bloodshed. Lying on the broken pavement, gazing up at the black-gray sky, he believed for a split second that he was dead and this was Hell. But it wasn't. As he sat up he saw before him a massive crater, its edge surrounded by broken buildings. He heard the distant wails of sirens, the screams of survivors. Tendrils of black smoke roiled from gaping windows and cracked masonry. He was in New York.

That freakish blue bastard had teleported him!

Walter climbed to his feet with an inarticulate snarl. It had not been a gentle trip; his hat and Rorschach mask were gone, his trench coat in tatters. Looking down that smoldering pit, he considered throwing himself in. No one could possibly survive such a fall. But thoughts of Chloe held him back. He wanted to be with her, or at least be in the same place where she had met her end. He gazed around him with bloodshot eyes and got his bearings. That way. He stumbled along the edge of the crater, followed it in the direction of the clinic.

The lucky ones had been at ground zero, their bodies vaporized instantaneously along with the buildings and vehicles. It was the area surrounding the crater that seemed so much more devastated; buildings listed to the side or toppled altogether, cars flipped over, men and women crushed or mangled, dying by inches. At one point Walter discovered the remains of what he supposed had been a man; everything below the waist lay on the very lip of the crater, the top half neatly sheared away by the energy bomb's vaporizing field. Walter shuddered, gave the half-corpse a wide berth. He prayed he wouldn't find Chloe in such a state.

It was hours before he finally reached his destination. The clinic's building hugged the edge of the crater, the side facing it completely open to the air, giving it the appearance of a gigantic dollhouse. Walter stepped through the wide-open doorway. Inside was a shambles; part of the ceiling had collapsed, crushed the clinic and its occupants beneath tons of shattered bricks and splintered boards. Walter picked his way through the devastation towards the back stairs leading to the second floor apartment.

"M…Morrr…" The weak groan reached his ears. Walter turned towards the source of the sound, saw a feeble movement. A survivor? Walter altered his course. Whoever it was lay beneath a sizable pile of loose masonry. Walter dug, tossed aside jagged bricks and chunks of plaster, until he uncovered a familiar face. The doctor, Chloe's friend. What was his name? Matt something. As Walter uncovered the man he realized it was hopeless; part of Matt's skull was caved in, blood and other fluids oozed around splinters of bone. The doctor's wide eyes stared sightlessly up at him.

"Morr…Morrrgannn," he gurgled, pawing feebly at the air with one hand, the other limb pinned beneath a fallen girder. Not far from where he lay, a sneakered foot protruded from the rubble. From the size, it had to belong to a man. Morgan's? The male nurse who occasionally filled in when a regular was unavailable at the clinic? Was he Matt's lover?

"Morgan…" Came the helpless, heartbreaking cry.

Walter sat and carefully lifted Matt's upper body, cradled him against his chest, heedless of the spreading wetness as the dying man bled on him. He caught the flailing hand in his own, gripped it tightly. "Shhh."

Matt whimpered incoherently. Walter rocked him gently, back and forth, murmuring reassurances he doubted could be heard or comprehended. Later, he used his ruined coat to cover the now motionless body; a sorry excuse for a funeral shroud.

Walter climbed the stairs to the second floor, found the door partly open in its warped frame. He squeezed into the little apartment. There was surprisingly little damage. The bookshelf had toppled, spilling its contents over the floor. Chloe's photo of herself and her lost husband hung crookedly from its nail. Walter took a step; the toe of his shoe connected with something that skidded a short distance on the floor. He bent down, picked it up. It was an envelope, probably slipped under the door by one of the clinic's nurses. Pale blue in color, Chloe's name and address written in tidy script, and in the lower right corner, a W. The post mark read "Oct. 22," the day after his arrest. Walter's legs weakened in sudden, desperate hope. He stumbled to the easy chair, fell heavily into it. _Oh, please,_ he silently begged, _let my earlier fears be true. Let this be a Dear John letter telling me she's still in Jubilation._ He tore open the blue envelope, unfolded the page tucked within. He stared at Chloe's neat handwriting.

_Walter,_

_I'm writing this in the hope that you'll sneak into my apartment at some point and find this waiting for you. There are some things I need you to know, and I need to tell you now, like this, before I lose my nerve._

_Lila Danvers has offered me a job as a nurse in Jubilation's hospital. I have to admit, since coming back here I've felt happier than I have in a long time, save the moments I've spent with you. I'm tired, Walter. I've given so much of myself at the free clinic I'm afraid that very soon there won't be anything left but an empty shell. Can you understand that?_

He could.

_Do you remember the first time we met? You with your sign, walking down that busy street, and I stopped and asked you whose world was about to end? I was only half-joking then. __My__ world ended the night Byron died. We'd just bought our first house together. We'd done everything responsible homeowners should have done; had the wiring inspected, the foundation, the furnace. We replaced the insulation, re-shingled the roof. We did everything…except install a lightning rod. Our first night in our new home there was a storm, the kind that's always frightened me. That's why I was awake when the lightning struck. I panicked, ran from the house without looking behind me. I thought the noise would have woken Byron, but he was always such a heavy sleeper. They told me he never woke. I've spent the last six years trying to get past the guilt of not saving him, to salvage something of my world out of the pieces left behind. But there just wasn't enough. Not until I found you. You fill all the empty spaces in me, Walter. __You__ are my new world._

_I've decided to decline Lila's offer. I'm coming back to New York, just as I planned. Whether you decide to stay, or choose to leave Rorschach behind and come back with me to Jubilation, I'll leave it up to you. I just want to be with you._

_Just a few more days, baby. I love you._

_Chloe_

The paper crumpled in his fists. A low sound began deep in his chest, pushed its way up his throat, emerged from his mouth in a long, keening wail.

She'd come back for him, probably caught in the explosion on her way here. There was nothing left for him. Nothing.

He had no idea how long he sat there, mourning the loss of her. When there were no more tears left, he rose shakily from the bed, took the photo down from the wall, and walked out of the apartment. Outside, he didn't have to search long to find the things he needed. There was a small group of Knot-Tops, killed in the act of defacing a wall with another silhouetted couple. Walter picked up the can of spray paint from where it had fallen from its wielder's hand. The other thing he needed he got off a dead policeman who'd been crushed under his own squad car. Walter wriggled his slender frame into the narrow gap beneath the car, tugged the object from the pig's belt, stood, and tucked it into his pocket.

Walter returned to the clinic, to the place on the wall where Chloe had always leaned as he visited her in his street prophet guise. It was there that he used the spray paint to scrawl the words in large letters: THE END IS HERE. Finished, he tossed the paint can aside. _Clunk._ He stared down at the photograph where he'd leaned it against the wall; a younger, happier Chloe and her husband, both in Heaven now. Walter reached into his pocket, pulled out the cop's revolver, pressed the weapon to his temple.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you," he whispered to the image of the woman he loved. He pulled back the hammer with his thumb.

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Now, imagine a clock. See the hands turn back, back, the hours slipping by, becoming yet-to-be. Back. Two-to-midnight, All Souls Day.

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"_Come on, you bitch!"_ Chloe screamed in frustration as she threw her weight against the tire iron. Hank's pickup sat on the shoulder with a flat tire. The traffic flowed by, uncaring of the woman's plight. Chivalry no longer applied in the twentieth century; certainly not this close to New York. It was infuriating. She was so close! But not close enough to walk the rest of the way. Chloe had managed to loosen all the lug nuts save this last one, which stubbornly refused to budge no matter how hard she tried. It was as if the thing was welded in place. Chloe yanked and shoved, screamed obscenities which would have made a hardened criminal blush. To no avail. Chloe straightened, panting hoarsely, felt a twinge in her lower back. Dammit. She might have to hitchhike after al--

The skyline exploded, blinding blue, turning night to day. The tiny hairs on Chloe's arms and the back of her neck stood on end. Her skin crackled with static electricity. A sphere of light engulfed half the city with the sound of a thousand thunderbolts. All around her tires screeched as stunned drivers lost control of their vehicles. Cars slammed into one another with metallic groans and crunches. Chloe barely noticed. There were screams and shouts of "Oh my god!" The worst had come to pass; Armageddon was here.

But where were the mushroom clouds? The shockwaves? The radioactive ash? There was only that terrible light, expanding outward. Then it was gone, as sudden as it had appeared, and left the skyline forever altered.

Chloe stood agog; the tire iron dangled forgotten in her loose grip. A strange sensation rose in her, at the back of her mind. A voice, yet not a voice, familiar and haunting. It whispered soundlessly, _Hurry._

Chloe rushed back to the flat tire, fitted the tire iron over the stubborn nut. It emitted a squeak of protest and turned. She yanked the useless tire off, let it drop, wrestled the spare onto the wheel, tightened the lug nuts. She flung the tire iron and carjack into the bed of the pickup, leapt into the cab and started the engine. She sped off towards the ruined city. Luck remained with her. The scattered vehicles and stunned bystanders provided to barrier to her. Chloe swerved through the obstacle course that was once a highway, ignoring the shouted curses, the braying horns. Some hidden instinct told her she could not afford even a second's delay. _Hurry, hurry,_ the voiceless words chanted, _before it is too late._ Too late for what she dared not ask, lest she know the answer.

Inside the city limits, Chloe's luck ran out. Every avenue, every side street and alley she tried was blocked by toppled buildings and crushed vehicles. "Fuck!" She killed the engine, leapt out of the truck, and started running. It wasn't easy; the ground was treacherously littered. Chloe fell more than once, her hands scraped raw from catching herself, a jagged hole was torn in the knee of her jeans and blood seeped from a cut on her knee. She took no notice of these inconsequential hurts. She struggled on like a crazed lemming to the cliff, heedless of anything but her nameless urgency. All around her fires raged and people screamed, walls crumbled and pipes burst. All was utter chaos.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry…_

It took hours. Finally, as the weak predawn light began to filter through the haze, she saw the clinic loom ahead, on the edge of a new precipice. Chloe stumbled towards it, filthy and exhausted. Her eyes were drawn to the yawning crater in spite of herself. So much lost, so many dead. The Gunga Diner, the newsstand with its talkative vendor and the comic-reading boy who sat against the hydrant, that _Hustler_-reading female cabdriver, Detective Fine and his partner whose name she couldn't remember, all her patients, Maria and Rachel, Morgan and Matt. She would mourn them all. Later.

Chloe stumbled over the wreckage of her neighborhood. God, she was so tired. Her ears picked up a sound. At first, she thought it was hissing gas from a broken main, but that would have been one long continuous sound. Not so this. _Hissss_, stop, _hisss_, stop. Chloe rounded a pile of rubble that was once another building and froze at the scene which came into her view.

A man stood before her wall, his back to her. She would know that stance, that red hair anywhere. Chloe's hand clamped over her mouth, tears streamed from her eyes. Alive. She stood in stunned relief as he painted words across the dirty bricks: THE END IS HERE. Watched as he tossed the spray paint can carelessly aside with a _clunk_. Watched as he reached into his pocket. Her eyes widened in horror as he drew out a gun, pressed the barrel to his temple. She heard the faint _click_ as the hammer was pulled back.

"_WALTER!"_

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He froze, finger on the trigger. No, no, couldn't be. He'd finally lost his mind. He was hallucinating.

"Walter, look at me."

He couldn't move. Didn't dare. God, how can you be so cruel? He willed his finger to tighten, to end his pain. But the voice, that terrible, beautiful voice, held him captive.

"Please, baby," she sobbed, "I can't outlive another husband."

And he turned, the weapon falling from his hand to clatter on the cracked pavement. And there she stood, hazel eyes gray with sorrow, her gray hair a mass of tangles, face dirt-streaked and tearstained, wearing that horrible lumpy sweater he always thought looked like a potato sack. Surely his subconscious wouldn't conjure such an un-idyllic vision. "Chloe?"

He looked terrible. Bruised and bloodied, hair matted, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. His voice came out as a weak croak, hoarse from long, anguished screams. Chloe approached him with care, as if he were a half-wild, frightened stray. She placed her hands tenderly upon cheeks like sandpaper. "I'm right here."

Her hands, so warm and real. Walter's face crumpled. He fell against her, weeping. Clung to her with bruising force, terrified of waking from this dream.

"It's okay," Chloe murmured as she held him, tears running from her own hazel eyes, "I'm here. I've got you."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I c-couldn't--"

"Shhh." She kissed his neck, his stubbled cheek, found his questing mouth and crushed her lips against his. They kissed long and deep, desperate for contact. Their mouths parted, connected again, breath and tears mingling. Finally, they drew apart with great reluctance and gazed upon each other. Their hands traced one another's features as if to memorize every contour, every beautiful flaw. Around them the world lay in ruins; all that they had known, every familiar face and building, wiped from the earth as if they'd never been. Those left behind would rebuild, perhaps create something better than before. Many hands would be needed for this great undertaking.

_They'll just have to get by without ours,_ Chloe decided then and there. She took Walter's hand. "Come on." She started leading him through the maze of destruction with careful but determined steps.

"Wait." Walter pulled away, hurried to the wall to pick something up, returned to her. Chloe's photo of her and Byron was tucked under his arm. Chloe smiled at him in gratitude, took his hand once again and started walking.

"Where are we going?" Walter asked without inflection, emotions numbed from so much turmoil.

Chloe turned her back on the clinic in which she'd given six years of her life without complaint. She felt no regret in this decision. After giving so much, she felt she'd earned the right to be selfish. "We're going home."

Walter followed without question. It didn't matter where they went. Home was wherever Chloe was. She was all he needed. His world. He knew then that Rorschach was dead; had died fighting in the snows of Antarctica, which was all the masked vigilante could have asked for. It surprised Walter how easy it was to leave it all behind, the endless quest that had consumed him for so long. He felt no pangs of guilt, no qualms or conflict. As he followed the woman who'd journeyed so far for him through the horrors of the bomb's aftermath, he felt only peace.

They found Hank's pickup where Chloe had left it, undisturbed. Chloe got behind the wheel, Walter beside her, the photo resting on his lap. She turned the key, backed the rattling vehicle until she could steer it back in the direction she'd come, then drove off. They wended their way through the wrecked streets, out of the city and onto the highway. Neither of the truck's occupants spared a glance for the damaged skyline behind them. Their gazes remained steady on the long road ahead.

"We're not married."

Chloe glanced at him, puzzled. "What?"

Walter's exhausted, ethereal eyes regarded the woman beside him, the corners of his mouth upturned. "Said you couldn't outlive another husband. But we're not married."

Chloe smiled. "Well," her right hand left the wheel, reached to grasp his left, fingers interlaced, "That's easily remedied."

Their eyes met in perfect accord. Then they returned their gazes ahead, towards Jubilation. Towards home.

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Fade to black. Roll the credits. Cue the music.

_Mine, immaculate dream made breath and skin_

_I've been waiting for you._

_Signed with a home tattoo,_

_Happy birthday to you was created for you._

_Can't ever keep from falling apart at the seams._

_Can I believe you're taking my heart to pieces?_

_Oh, it'll take a little time, might take a little crime_

_To come undone now_

_We'll try to stay blind to the hope and fear outside._

_Hey, child, stay wilder than the wind and blow me in to cry…_

_Who do you need, who do you love_

_When you come undone?_

_Who do you need, who do you love_

_When you come undone?_

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**A/N: There you have it. Hope it didn't disappoint. I must admit, I'm sorry it's over. I've really grown attached to those two. Who knows? Maybe I'll write a sequel. Are you game? ;-)**


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